Flitting Through Pages: A Reader's Odyssey Book II
by Lady of Myth and Legends
Summary: Thorin & Company, and the Company of One, are moving further into The Lone Lands. Their Quests are perilous, danger never far behind, as both seek out homelands stolen from them. Answers lie in Rivendell at the hands of Lord Elrond yet, the Two Companies are not the only ones to seek his council. Cate Martin may soon face a question from which she cannot hide: What if home is lost?
1. Of Borders, Thunderstorms, and Towers

**Welcome, dear readers! I have returned, as promised. Though, it has been a long while. Flitting Through Pages is continuing pretty much were we left off in the last book. Your patience with me is nothing short of Elven Grace , dear readers. I hope this chapter can live up to the quality I have put down so far. Please enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Flitting Through Pages:_**

 ** _A Reader's Odyssey_**

* * *

 **Book II**

 ** _The Two Companies_**

* * *

 _"It comes, Tharkun_ _." A graying face, alight with the eyes of those who have long known nothing but the dark. A withered hand, fingers bent and distorted, much alike to the talons of the Great Worms, reached out; grasping the hem of the muddy fabric. "Death, desolation, and the Eye. The Eye wreathed in flames. That which was lost shall be found. He gathers . . . and searches . . . He has t-taken-"_

 _"What?" Cracked lips mutter urgently. Orbs of gray countenance pierces those of the dying and a voice akin a thunder rolls threatening across the tiny, decrepit alcove. "What has been taken? Answer me!"_

 _Madden eyes flit back and forth in uncontrollable fits, seeing nothing of present yet, nonetheless, seeing_ something. _The clawed digits fumble and scrape along its thick, swollen neck. "T-take them."_

 _Frigid metal and fraying cord falls, echoing mutely as it meets the crumbling stone._

 _"M-my_ son." _The taloned hand once more finds itself fisted in the hem of the cloak. "The M-Mountain . . . birthright . . . He searches . . . s-s-s-searchessssss -"_

 _"No!" Worn hands grasp the stilling form; hat and staff are thrown aside with a rising clatter. "What does He seek?! What has He taken from you?!"_

 _"L-leave me . . . Tharkun." The gleaming eyes pale, then flicker. "T-take them . . . save that . . . which I could . . . n-not . . ."_

 _Breath flutters, then fails completely. The twisted form of a once great and powerful king, after nine years of imprisonment and torture, finally yields and succumbs. The body slumps and falls from ancient arms; a gnarled finger outstretched towards the prone objects._

 _"I hear you and take heed," The worn hand retrieves the cord, the metal object scraping harshly against the stonework as it is lifted. A pouch of leather hangs beside it's iron companion, its contents, for now, unknown, for there is no time. "Sleep and know peace, Prince of Erebor."_

 _It is only later, when the Shadows cease their reach for him, that he understands._

 _The symbol of the Prince's House, the last of the Great signets of the Dwarves, is gone._

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **In Which, There is the Crossing of Borders, Thunderstorms, and a Watch Tower**

* * *

Pressing against the thundering rain, the three companions (one Wizard, a mare, and a small hedgehog) rode onward. The road West had not been kind, not in the slightest. Weather, if one could believe it, had been the least of their problems. Even now, Radagast the Brown would sooner deal with the foulest windstorm the North could bestow upon him if only to avoid further dealings with Orcs. He shook water out of his tired eyes and muttered an encouragement to the chestnut mare in her own Tongue. Her reply was nothing short of displeasure and he once more asked remorsefully for her pardon and forgiveness. A thread of lightning cut through the darkness of the night, alighting the sky with white hot fire and illuminating the dips in the plain ahead. He pulled them to an abrupt but appreciated halt; at least on the side of the mare's. He waited a beat more . . . and there it was.

The dip opened up to a rocky path, narrow and treacherous. Yet, it was the most welcome sign he had seen these past five days. At last, they were nearly there.

The Istar leaned over and offered the poor chestnut a small, reassuring pat on her neck. _"Nearly there, my dear. Done well, you have."_

Yes, they had done well to reach this far with no hint of discovery. He only hoped it would remain as such until further word could be sent.

 _"Forward, if you please."_

With an insistent grumble that the promise of oats be kept, the mare obliged and guided them onward down the slope. She had quite enough of the blasted weather, the constant threat of Orcs running her down, and if that silly hedgehog started up another one of his far-sung stories about how he _nearly_ was eaten by six giant spiders then she would quite simply have to bite off his ever wiggling nose. Truly, _six_ spiders?

 _"Miss Mare? Did I ever tell you the story about how I -"_

There was nothing else for it.

 _"Master Sebastian?"_

Did he think she was a colt and birthed last week?

 _"Yes, Miss Mare?"_

One spider was more than enough, surely?

 _"Do be quiet."_

It was going to be a long ways until they reached the valley below.

* * *

Apparently, even if the air had been cleared between allies and friends, that did not mean the weather had any obligation to cooperate in the slightest. It was dark and the road awash with mud and water-filled holes which, on one occasion, nearly sent Minty into a fall that nearly had broken her ankle. Thorin had called a halt after that and the entire Company of Dwarves and the Company of One (for even Miss Martin, though light enough as she was, had to dismount out of fear her black beast would run a similar misfortune) had no choice but to continue on foot until some form of shelter could be reached. On they traveled this way, fighting the weather as it grew fouler and the sky grew blacker until there was no light at all and all had become drenched in the downpour. They were nearly at the point of complete exhaustion when a cord fire struck a tree close to the road (or what little had not been washed away). It burst into a raging flame; raining down burning leaves and branches which caught the changing winds, sending the debris flying in their direction.

They scattered. Pulling each other and ponies out of the line of the fire, the Companies made a dash for the opposite side of the road . . . which meant running straight into the thick underbrush. Shouts of warning echoed through the air, calling out to watch for a badger hole, a loose boulder, or downed tree. The scramble continued until they were clear of the growing flames and the tight confinement of low vegetation. By then, they had worn out the last of their strength and settled down on a grouping of rocks, trying to catch their breaths.

" _Ow._ "

Óin glanced up sharply, hawk eyes focusing on the poor lady who was now bent over at the waist, clutching her side, and grimacing. At least that fire had one use; they could now see one another again. And now that he could see, it was made clear their injured had become even more so. In the mad dash for escape, they had forgotten she was unable to be as nimble or steady as the situation demanded. Yet, by some grace, she had not fallen behind. The cost, however, was now his primary concern.

"Lass!"

"Miss Martin!"

Bilbo, Bofur, Fíli, and Kíli all made a beeline for her even as all turned to see whatever the matter was. By the time Óin reached her side, Miss Martin was already being guided to sit by Bofur while the lads were offering her water and removing her pack from her shoulders. The hobbit was speaking poetry of some sort, a light and soothing refrain about trees and Elves in the attempt to draw her attention away from her bruised ribs and broken wrist.

"I'm alright." The lady glanced about sheepishly, still rubbing absently at her side. "It's just a stitch, really."

"Jus' let Óin take a look at ya, Lass." Bofur caught his eye, nodded, and reached out for the healer to come forth. "Best ta be sure, aye?"

She nodded stiffly in agreement, but kept her eyes downcast. Clearly she was trying to hide the embarrassment the situation had caused. He ignored it for her sake and, waving the lads away so he could work, knelt down to begin his own assessment. He frowned, hands pressing firmly against her ribs. She hissed lowly but that was to be expected. He encouraged her to take a breath, she did so, then once again. No change. That was good. He took her fragile wrist in his hands, gentle but probing, he checked both the bones there and the ones in her hand. Again, no further damage seemed to have occurred. Her ribs were still heavily bruised and her wrist and knuckle remained broken, however that was the extent of it. Thank Mahal for small blessings.

"Very good, Lass." He offered her a small encouraging smile and rose to his feet. "Seems ye _can_ take care of yeself when ye put yer mind ta it."

She met his gaze and returned the gesture, her lips turning up at the corners. At least she could see the humor in it.

"See?" Miss Martin turned to the others, her smile widening. "I'm not _completely_ useless. Master Óin even said so."

"Careful, Lass," Dwalin raised a very skeptical, very bushy brow at this. His expression spoke of dire seriousness. "I wouldn't take tha' as much o' a compliment if I were ye."

Her smile fell in an instant, causing the Company to erupt into roars of laughter and barely controlled snickers glee. Dwalin grinned deviously at him over the top of Glóin's head and offered him a shrug which basically amounted to 'what? She left herself open'.

He himself found a grin tugging at the corner of his beard, though he quickly hid it. "Alright, lads. Quite yer fussin'. What are ye? Warriors or hens?"

This brought up a ruckus of denial and emphatic protest. As several of the Company refused admittance of being anything 'hen-like' in their entire lives, they offered sworn oaths to Óin that they knew where he slept. If he did not wish for anything unnatural to end up in his bedroll, then he better watch his words. The tactic worked, nonetheless. The lass was trying hard not to laugh at all the banter and thinly veiled threats. At the very least, she was no longer focused on her own pain any longer. He would have to give her a drought tonight if she was to get any sort of rest, however.

"Thorin!"

* * *

Cate jerked at the sudden shout, nearly falling off her boulder in the process. Catching herself before she could slip entirely (damn, this rain just wouldn't let up), she looked up to see Nori emerge out of the darkness wearing a very pleased expression. That in itself set her nerves off. Nori was still very much one of the Company she couldn't quite pin down entirely.

"I've found shelter." The Dwarf supplied eagerly, pointing towards the North. "It has the advantage of sight in all directions. It's weathered, but still fortified. Looks to be an old watch tower from long ago."

 _A watch tower?_

"Ah!" Gandalf made a noise of equal excitement and hurriedly, made his way forward. "Amon Sûl! So we are not too far off our path after all! That _is_ splendid news indeed, Master Nori!"

 _Amon Sûl? Wait -_

Cate bit her tongue hard enough to nearly draw blood. Taking a deep shuddering breath, she tried to steady her nerves. There wasn't anything to worry over. Not now. Not here. What they needed now, was to get the bloody hell out of this damned rain before they all caught their death. She was soaked and tired and sore (even if she didn't want to admit that to anyone present). She wanted to sleep and not wake up for at least three days. If Amon Sûl was the only place they could do that and be safe, then that was were they had to go. Feelings be damned.

"Lead on, Master Nori." Thorin was already rounding up the Company to move.

"On yer feet, Lass." Bofur was lifting her by her good elbow before the words were fully out of his mouth. He steadied her when her balanced wobbled for a moment. "We'll be out o' this rain before ye know it."

She offered him a small smile, flipping the hood of her jacket over her hair. "That sounds like the best thing in the world right now. Well, that and a fire and Bombur's stew."

"Now on tha' score, I couldn't agree more!" He grinned cheekily. "Hot food and a bedroll, that's all I need."

"Did someone ask for stew?"

Bifur and Bombur both appeared beside Bofur, grinning wildly. The large Dwarf in question hefted his pack higher on his shoulder and offered his cousin a knowing look. Bifur simply replied with an expression Cate couldn't quite hear but Bombur and Bofur must have found it equally amusing because they both shared a quick laugh.

"What?" She raised an eyebrow at the trio. "Something you want to share?"

"Not really for your ears, now is it?"

Cate closed her eyes in exhaustion, her breath catching hard in her throat. She willed herself to inhale slowly, fighting for calm and patience. Forget how Nori made her feel uneasy. That was nothing compared to this. Trust Dori to ruin whatever good will she was forming with the rest of the Dwarves. She turned around. The Dwarf in question eyed her suspiciously with a twisted look of irritation upon his hard features. A great part of her felt intimidated by the Dwarf and, truly, she wanted to avoid being anywhere near him. Still, there wasn't much for it. She thickly swallowed a retort and merely bowed her head.

 _Don't say anything rash. You can't start picking fights again. Just cope with it._

"My apologies, Master Dori." She offered solemnly and with genuine consideration. "I meant no offense."

"You never do," he replied hotly and Cate caught the scalding expressions of displeasure from the others out of the corner of her eye. Expressions Dori clearly was choosing to ignore. "You simply step wherever you please, without a thought, not caring about the consequences your actions bring to everyone else."

She froze, stunned at the anger and sheer bite in the Dwarf. And yet, she couldn't entirely bring herself to deny him his say.

"Dori," Bombur stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Dori's shoulder but the older Dwarf shook him off with a deepening scowl. _"Enough."_

"Yes! Enough _is_ enough!" The older Dwarf emphasized, his tone darkening. _"She,"_ He pointed an accusatory thick finger at her. "placed everyone in danger running off the way she did. And nearly killing our Burglar in the process, if I may add!" Then he turned to her himself, marching forward with a righteous anger. "My brother had to give chase and save you from Orcs and when they brought you back, Óin had to hold down your arms so you wouldn't be tempted to take a swing at anyone else! Not that it helped matters, you nearly broke Dwalin's nose when he tried to keep you from harming yourself! You _broke_ Thorin's!"

"Dori, come on, ye've said yer piece." Bofur retorted, placing his own hands comfortingly on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. "Leave it. Thorin sorted it out 'imself, ye don' need ta-"

 _"And you lot!"_ Dori rounded on Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur next, clenching one hand into a fist and pointing with the other. "Don't you care in the slightest?! She put our lives at _risk!_ She could have gotten one of us _killed!_ And here you stand talking of stew and warm fires and bedrolls!"

"There's been enough ill feelings goin' abou' without hav-"

"Ill feelings? _Ill_ feelings?!"

"Master Dwarf, just take a moment-"

"I've had plenty of moments, you great lummox!"

"Oi! Who are ye callin' a _lummox,_ now?!"

"I will since you lot clearly have taken leave of any sense!"

"Sense! _Sense?!_ The only Dwarf here tha' seems ta be lackin' any sense, is ye Dori!"

"Oh, is _that_ so?"

It was horrible. Cate hadn't quite seen an uproar like this, at least, not of a Dwarvish nature. The argument was heated, fingers pointing at chests, names and insults thrown about without a care. And the _shouting._ The sheer volume alone was enough to give her the beginnings of a righteous headache. She glanced about to see if any of the Company had in fact stayed back with them but they were alone. An island of anger and heat in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. The only thing the Dwarves hadn't resorted to yet was fists and shouting in their own Tongue. Though, both those lines were clearly starting to fracture. All four Dwarves were so red in the face, it would have given Glóin's ruddy beard a run for his money.

 _Enough. This is enough._

God, she was going to hate this.

"Stop!" She leaped forward, putting herself in the middle, and placed her hands against Dori and Bofur's chests in the attempt to separate them. "Stop it!"

"I ought to hit you with one of my labels, I should!" Bombur was clearly riled and now in no mood to make peace.

"Move, Lass." Bofur grumbled, and tried to brush her aside with one hand. "I've had abou' enough of 'is-"

"He's isn't wrong, Master Bofur."

That did it.

* * *

That did it, indeed.

Bifur stopped halfway from throwing a hit at the graying Dwarf which, truly, would not have bothered him in the very slightest. In fact, if he could still manage to do so it would be _very_ pleasing. However, the heavy resigned look on the lass' poor bruised face was enough for him to lower it. If only so he did not catch her in the crossfire. The Orc had done enough damage to her, she didn't need an uncontrolled Dwarf in a fit of temper to add to the sickening blue already growing on her brow. Of course, this did nothing to stop him from sending Dori a look of promise retribution for his words over her head. Bombur may be fat, but only family could take the mickey out of him for it. Not any other.

"Lass -" His cousin made a motion to placate her but did not get far.

"No, Bofur." She shook her head, hood falling away as she did so. Rain fell into her eyes and she wiped away the water with the heel of her hand. "He's right."

Bifur, taking pity on her, reached over and flicked the hood back over. Not that it did much good. They were all soaked to the bone.

"Thank you, Master Bifur." She glanced up at him and offered him a grateful incline of her head.

He merely nodded, unable to offer anything more than that.

Dori, however, decided at that point to make another go at her. "Well, so the little lady _can_ admit she's wrong, eh?"

Bifur saw a muscle move in the lass' jaw that hinted at the desire to say something that really _would_ shut him up. He wished she would, it would greatly amuse him to see such a small lady tear down a Dwarf like Dori until all his pride and air had been utterly spent. He didn't like Dori. Not in the slightest. All his goings on about fine wine and good clothes and haughty this and that was enough to drive Bifur into further madness. And he had plenty enough of that thanks to the cursed axe in his head. What was fine and expensive things compared to being able to speak with others not of his own kin or race? It made his work as a toymaker all the more difficult. Unable to converse with other Free People, his constant need for his cousins' tongues was a weary and frustrating thing. Not that Dori would know anything about that. His tongue worked perfectly well.

Bofur opened his mouth to further argue but the lass reached up and placed a small, pale hand on his shoulder. His cousin looked confused but she spoke something quiet and indecipherable to him that Bifur did not catch then raised her voice to Dori.

"Master Dwarf," Her tone was firm but respectable and she kept her voice strong but contrite. "I do owe you all a great apology. You're right, I did endanger your lives and Bilbo's. I was self-centered and selfish in wanting to get away from camp and that could have cost you more than just a half-day's worth of riding. I'm truly sorry. Really, I am."

And she looked it. Not just her expression but everything else as well. The bruised brow, the bandaged wrist, and the wrapped ribs all painted a sorry, pitiful picture of someone who had learned an important lesson the hard way 'round. It was a sorry thing indeed she had to learn it that way. And painful. Though, she would not so soon forget it and that was a comfort at the very least.

Not that Dori could see the sense in that.

"If you ever," the Dwarf growled angrily, jabbing a finger at her shoulder. " _ever,_ place any one of my brothers in danger again-"

"It won't happen." She insisted, not breaking eye contact for even a moment. "I swear it."

He had to admit, the lass did come across as a bit impressive. She was foolish but at least honest and that had to count for something.

"We need to catch up with the others," Bombur supplied suddenly and preventing Dori from adding anything else to the fire. "We've fallen behind thanks to this. If we don't get a move on the Company will be wondering where we've gone and send a search after us."

Bifur nodded and made a noise of agreement. This had all been unnecessary, at least at this time. The Company was without it's strongest member and its only cook. This would not bode well for them when they caught up. Well, he would certainly supply Dori as the one responsible. Of that, there was no question at all.

"A bit late fer tha', lads."

He turned and found Dwalin, second son of Fundin, piercing them all with a look of barely shrouded disappointment and irritation. Not for the first time during this journey did Bifur curse Dori and his insistent need for attention.

* * *

Well, that went well.

At least, that was what Bofur would have liked to have said. Of course, the reality was a far different story. Nothing is perhaps more shameful than being marched into to camp, uphill, in the pouring rain, by an angry Dwarf Lord who most certainly would have liked to have been wrapped up in his bedroll right at this very moment and enjoying a nice hot bowl of Bombur's famous stew. Not that he could blame him, really. He didn't exactly find the current situation all that amusing either. And, especially, neither had Thorin.

Not in the slightest.

"Come on, Bombur, we are all hungry."

Bofur winced. By the tone alone . . . Oh, but Thorin _was_ angry.

Tomorrow. It could wait till tomorrow.

For a time there was nothing but the sound of the crackling fire and Bombur's usual preparation of the evening meal. Only, this time it was without it's usual cheerful flare and the entire atmosphere in general had delved into a similar state as the weather. No one spoke. No one sung. There was only the shuffling of gear, the unrolling of bedrolls, and the quiet smoking of pipes. The old tower offered a great deal of shelter, at least in the few spots where the roof still held and the walls were not ready to give way. There wasn't that many dry spots and the one they found was not very large. Everyone was grouped together with barely much room for movement or space. It was, however, rather spooky. Even the lass kept looking about as if in search for ghosts or spooks or whatever else liked to lurk in places like these. At the very least, with the confined space and all, she wasn't off by her lonesome. She would be safer sleeping alongside them and warmer for it too.

"What is this place?" Ori piped up from his place by the fire, his bedroll wrapped around him up to his chin. Poor lad was still shivering. Curse the blasted wind for causing such a ruckus. "What was it used for?"

Over in her corner, the lass' ears perked up and she sat straighter, further wrapping herself inside her own bedroll. Bilbo, who sat beside her, also showed signs of curiosity. Bofur, himself, could not deny his own interest. This place was grim and usually, grim places had quite a bit of a story to tell in order to explain _why_ they were grim. A place couldn't be grim without a story.

"That, dear Ori, is a very complex story." Gandalf said quietly from the opposite end of the fire. Yet, he removed his pipe from his mouth nonetheless, and settled himself more comfortably. "It's not a very pleasant tale."

"Perfect for a night like this," supplied Kíli with enthusiasm (really, did nothing ever dampen that lad's spirit?). "It's miserable out there. If we're going to be miserable anyway, we may as well hear of it."

Bofur had to concede that the young prince had a point there. "Yes, go on Master Gandalf. Tell us the tale. Warts and all."

The rest of the Company nodded in approval and voiced their own encouragement. Anything to take their minds off the damp and the rain.

"Very well," the Wizard relented and all fell silent as he began his tale. "This is a watch tower. The Tower of Amon Sûl it was called long ago though now it is commonly referred to as 'Weathertop'. It was built by the King of Men, Elendil in the Second Age. Elendil, as you know, fell at the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. The one who cut the Ring from Sauron's hand."

If all had been silent before, now it was even more so if that were possible. Bofur chanced a glance at his immediate kin and found that Bombur had paused in his ladling of the stew. Bifur had stiffened, his own spoon halfway to his mouth. All about the fire, the Company had paused as if holding their breathes. No one spoke of the Dark One much in conversation these past hundred years. His Name brought misfortune and death, or so Bofur had heard it said.

"The Tower served to protect these lands," continued Gandalf. "but, in 1409 of the Third Age, in fell to the wrath and ruin of the Witch-King of Angmar, his invasion of Anor, and the combined forces of Rhudaur. The reason for the Tower's destruction was not for its defense or its position. Though, I cannot deny it was once a place of reasonable defense. No, it once housed an tool of great power and there was a mighty fear that it would be taken by the Enemy. It was saved, however, and taken away. But for naught, for in the end it was lost to all."

The Wizard fell silent and spoke no more.

"That's all, then?" Bofur raised a brow, severely disappointed. "Some tale. Wha' about this 'tool', then? Ye said it was powerful, eh? Tell us about _that,_ now."

"That, Master Bofur," Gandalf warned evenly, his own brow arched in challenge. "Is best left unsaid. There are others like it out in the world but, they are dangerous and not to be tampered with."

"Isn't that the way of it." Nori brought up from his place by the fire. "Always some story about some magical thing and how no one should use it. Right bit o' rubbish, if ya ask me. Why make a thing if ya don' ever use it. Jus' supposed to look an' coo over it?"

That earned the thief a right laugh from around the fire.

Gandalf huffed irritably, muttered further about the stubbornness of Dwarves, and rolled over.

* * *

 **Here is but a little history to tide you over and help make a bit of sense. I honestly cannot put everything here because that alone is a book but this will help keep some history straight as I mention it. Really, for all those interested, read the Appendixes or get yourself a copy of "A Guide to Middle-Earth" by Robert Foster. As I write this story, more and more pieces of history will be mentioned by the characters and I will try to explain it well within context of the story and in time-lined notes at the end of each chapter as they become relevant. remember, this is only a very tiny piece of timeline. A great deal of other things happens on or around these dates but are not mentioned due to relevance.**

 **In 1409 of the Third Age the Tower of Amon Sûl is sacked and burned by the combined forces of Rhudaur and Angmar. The Palantír is taken to Fornost.**

 **In 1975 of the Third Age the Palantíri of Annúminas and Amon Sûl are lost.**

 **In 2060 of the Third Age, the power of Dol Guldur grows and the wise fear it is Sauron taking shape.**

 **In 2063 of the third Age, Gandalf enters Dol Guldur for the first time. Sauron flees before he is discovered. The Watchful Peace begins.**

 **In 2460 of the Third Age, the Watchful peace ends. Sauron returns to Dol Guldur.**

 **In 2463 of the Third Age, The White Counsel is first formed. Deagal finds the One Ring and is killed by Smeagol.**

 **In 2570 of the Third Age, Dragons reappear in the North and begin to trouble the Dwarves.**

 **In 2845 of the Third Age, Thráin II is imprisoned in Dol Guldur.**

 **In 2850 of the Third Age, Gandalf enters Dol Guldur. He discovers Thráin II, who has been tortured and his ring taken. He gives Gandalf the key and map and then succumbs to his wounds.**

 **As some of my readers have asked, no, Azog is not apart of this story. The history has him as dead, so dead he remains.**


	2. Curse Dori and His Need for Attention

**This is going to be a difficult chapter, readers. Fair warning.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **In Which, Curse Dori and His Insistent Need for Attention**

* * *

Morning brought with it a warm, easy breeze and a cloudless sky.

A full night of rest, in Dwalin's opinion, had been exactly what the Company needed to prevent further tempers from fraying. Though, in Dori's case, this had come far too late. The warrior hoped the Dwarrow was proud of himself, for he had heard enough. Enough to know that Dori, while not _entirely_ wrong in his opinion of Miss Martin's actions, had no right to lay his judgement so heavy-handed upon her head. No, that she did not deserve. Not when Thorin had already spoken to her and amends had been made. Now was the time for the forging of fellowship or at least a mutual aliment, not the severing of possible allies. Truly, was the Dwarf daft? Relations were difficult enough with the hobbit and the presence of the lass only made it much more complicated. Master Baggins was _fond_ of her. As were several of the others and if peace was to remain between them then pleasantries _had_ to be observed.

Thorin had spoken to Dwalin of the conversation had between him and the lass. The revelation of her remorse and fear was of no surprise, for she was right in doing so. The Wilds here were not kind, as she had so unfortunately discovered. Nonetheless, Thorin had offered her protection and therefore, it was their duty to see it through. If Dori did not watch his ways, he would find himself in his own mess of trouble. Dwalin certainly did not want the pleasure of sorting it out himself. He would have to speak with Dori, make sure his disagreement with Miss Martin had been settled before moving forward. Otherwise -

"Master Dwalin?"

He turned from the saddling of his pony, finding the lady of Men at his shoulder. He was the only Dwarrow in the Company who stood taller than herself, a fact he still had yet to become accustomed to. It was an odd thing indeed for a Dwarf to have the advantage of height over a member of the Race of Men. "Aye, Miss Martin. What be yer business this mornin'?"

She shuffled, adjusting the sling upon her shoulder which Óin had fashioned for her moments ago. Her fragile wrist hung limply within its folds and, by the awkward way she shifted, it appeared she had not yet become accustomed to the device as of yet.

"I wanted to offer my apologies," she supplied quietly, guilt plain as day in her face and voice. Then added, "For last night, I mean. And the night before. I shouldn't have -"

That was quiet enough of that, Dwalin thought and said, "Thorin spoke to ye, aye?"

"Well, yes but-"

He turned back to belting the saddle upon his pony. "Then there is nothin' left ta say, Miss Martin. Thorin's given ye forgiveness. That's enough fer me . . . and the rest o' us, as well."

"It's not enough for _me._ "

Now, _that_ did give him pause.

He eyed her carefully, tugging absently on the strap of the saddle. "Oh? Is tha' right?"

She straightened her posture, looking sharp and determined even though she winced at the shifting of her ribs and arm.

"That's right," She nodded curtly. "It's not just Thorin I owe an apology to, but the rest of you as well. Dori was right, I put everyone in danger. I -"

"And ye've apologized fer that," Dwalin remarked with firm confirmation. Great Mahal, this woman _was_ stubborn. "Pay no heed ta Dori. The Dwarf always puts his great nose in where it doesn't belong."

The lass did not seemed comforted by this in the slightest. Guilt still shined upon her face, posture stiff, and the one good hand clenched in frustration. "I admit when I'm _wrong,_ Master Dwalin. Won't you at least give me that? A chance to apologize openly, to _everyone,_ and not just in private with your king."

Dwalin stood, stunned. Ah, so _that_ was the root of the matter. Curse Dori and his insistent need for attention. Thorin had sought to spare her the shame of standing before the entire Company and laying her low before them. His private audience had been his way of rectifying the situation without embarrassing her. Now, all that had come undone. Miss Martin was now determined to face the publicly of her mistakes when most of the Company had already accepted Thorin's private handling of it. And now Dori had thrown that all aside, all but shoving his anger and wrath upon her. She was supposed to be free of this burden, not still wallowing in it.

"Miss Martin," he began carefully and with great tact. He put aside his pack and sat down upon a fallen stone, hands draping over his thick knees. For a moment, he watched the Company as they packed away bedrolls and saddled their steeds. Bilbo was conversing with the lads over pipe weed and Thorin and Gandalf stood off to the side, bent over the map and key. They appeared to be arguing quietly over some detail or another. He took a slow breath. "If ye feel it will set yer mind at ease, I will speak ta Thorin on yer behalf. If he gives his blessing, then you may speak yer peace."

A small, tentative smile crossed the lass' face then. She expelled a great breath, as if in relief, and held out her lone, pale hand. "Thank you, Master Dwalin."

He starred at the outstretched offering, confused.

"It's a gesture of striking a deal." Miss Martin explained, quietly. "It means, 'we have a bargain'. It also means 'friendship' and 'good to meet you', in my country, at least."

"I see. Sounds complicated, Lass." Dwalin raised a brow in slight suspicion. "Don't know if I should agree ta something I don't fully understand."

"Fair enough," she nodded and retracted her hand.

Mahal bless him, the woman's honesty was too much for him. Before she could fully take back her hand, his own came forward and caught it between his large blunted fingers. Her eyes widened in genuine surprise, clearly not expecting his acceptance. A part of him was surprised himself.

"Now what?" He asked gruffly, feeling more awkward than his wished to.

She shook herself out of her stupor and her face slid back into an expression of seriousness. "We shake on it."

Her fingers wrapped around his hand (as much as it was able to, at least), pumped it strongly once, twice, thrice and that was that.

* * *

 _Mahal above_ , thought Thorin, _would the matter_ never _rest?_

"Curse Dori and his insistent need for attention," he spat angrily. "First, Gandalf chooses to do as he wishes and now _this._ Does _no one_ in this Company pay heed to me at all?"

Dwalin merely shook his head and replied, "The lass has a way o' bringing out the others more . . . difficult sides, ta say the least. Especially Dori's."

Thorin made another grumble of irritation as he turned and strapped his pack to the saddle. "The matter is _settled._ I want no more word of it."

"Thorin -" his friend began, then stopped as if thinking better of it.

 _"What?"_ he asked, more sharply than he intended. He paused, righted himself, and said somewhat less irritably, "Speak freely, Dwalin. Long have I valued your words, I will not think less of them now."

The burly Dwarrow nodded in acceptance, crossing his arms in thought, and continued, "Perhaps it will be a benefit. Fer everyone. Get it all out in the open an' clear the air. Tha' way, there's no possibility fer misunderstanding or grudges. The lass would feel better abou' it, as well. I spoke with her; she still feels guilt, Thorin."

This gave him great pause. The stubbornness of this woman would never cease. Even now, with his blessing of forgiveness and his acceptance of her guilt, she could not let it be unless paraded in shame in front of the entirety of the Company? Perhaps, if Dori had not voiced his wrath at her, this would never had come to pass at all. Oh, yes, he was most displeased with the Dwarrow about _that._ It had caused a new air of disagreement to settle among his men again. All of this was needless. He had handled it _personally._

Thorin raised a hand to his brow, rubbing at the tension there. "This is _unnecessary._ "

"It was," Dwalin agreed solemnly, arms still crossed. "Now, however . . ." He trailed off, a dawning realization coming over his expression.

Thorin stiffened as he watched his battle-brother war with some thought he could not understand. "Dwalin, speak for Mahal's sake. What are you thinking?"

"This could cause a rift, Thorin." Dwalin's expression morphed into a growing horror, face paling beneath his beard. "Spark arguments and grudges. Dori will not let it go. I saw him. I _heard_ him. His anger will only simmer until it boils over and then . . . he will draw the others into it. His brothers will side with him, o' course they would, while Bofur and his kin will side with the lass. They are already growing fond o' her. The others," he shook his head, unsure. "I know not of what they will decide should the time come. They will take it personally, nevertheless, on all sides. The Hobbit, however -"

"The Hobbit will not allow further ill treatment of her." Thorin finished grimly, recalling the angry conversation between them the morning after the attack. Now, he was beginning to understand. "This could split the Company."

"Aye," his trusted friend agreed. "Dori has opened the chance for legal retribution against her. The unnecessary risking of Dwarven lives, the least of those, and his brother he would risk an open grudge for, that's certain. And, if royal blood had been spilt -"

Thorin growled, hands clenched. This. _This_ was why he chose to handle the issue himself. Miss Martin had no understanding of this land and its laws (whether they be the laws of Men, Elves, or Hobbits), let alone Dwarven legal matters. She did not know. She could _not_ have known. The risking of the royal family was a dangerous game. They had gone to War with the Orcs of Moria for Thrór. If he or his sister-sons had fallen the night before . . . the Company would have had every right to ask for blood in return. And there would have be naught in stopping them, save perhaps Gandalf. Dori knew this.

 _"Curse Dori and his insistent need for attention!"_ He bellowed, striking out with his fist and hitting the crumbling wall of stone behind him. It gave under the pressure and left a small spiderweb impression in its wake. "Am I to be defied at every turn? Will no one honor my decisions? Is my judgement so poor that even my own subjects must rise up to handle matters easily solved by their _king?!_ "

"Thorin -"

"Am I not of sound enough mind to handle affairs such as these on my own, Dawlin?" Thorin pressed quietly, sinking to a fallen stone and clasping his dark head in his hands. "I _need_ them to trust in my judgement. Trust that I can be a just and wise king. _Not only a mere blacksmith._ "

The latter had been spoken so softly, his friend barely heard it. Though hear it, he did.

"Whatever ye may think o' yeself, Thorin Oakenshield," Dwalin began, stern and unyielding. _"Never_ doubt our loyalty ta ye. As misplaced as it was, as foolish and _stupid,_ Dori argued fer the safety o' us all."

Thorin opened his mouth to argue furiously but the other Dwarf held up a hand in peace. The king's teeth clacked together in obvious displeasure yet, said nothing.

"I'm no' sayin' he was right, Thorin. Far from it." Dwalin shook his head, eyes somber. "But, he did so out o' love. And fer tha', ye cannot fault 'im."

"That does _not_ help us."

"No, it doesn'," agreed Dwalin, his tone grim. "But, this matter mus' be settled before it grows into a feud."

Thorin sighed. There was nothing for it. Dori had forced their hand. Curse him.

"Very well," the Dwarf king relented solemnly. "Bring Miss Martin forward. Though, I am very much against it."

* * *

Cate was struggling to strap her pack to Tolkien's saddle (with one hand, mind you), when she noticed something curious.

"Where has Gandalf gone?" She asked, glancing about for the Gray Wizard. "Wasn't he just here?"

At her suggestion, Bilbo looked up and about, sharing in the search with eyes flicking from one Dwarf to the next. No such luck. "That's the second time this journey he's vanished. Wherever does he go, I wonder?"

She shrugged, "Not a clue. Here, can you-?"

"Oh! Of course, Miss Martin!" Bilbo reached up and helped secure her pack to the saddle before slipping her walking stick back into place. He patted his handiwork, a proud gleam in his sharp eyes. "There now. That should hold until nightfall."

Cate offered him a wide smile. "Thank you, Master Baggins. I'm sorry but I may need some help until this," here she wiggled the good fingers in her very bad hand, "is better."

Bilbo merely waved his own hand at her in a 'don't mention it' sort of way. "Nonsense, Miss Martin. Think nothing of it, truly."

 _Right. As if I'm just going to forget that,_ She thought. Honestly, this whole journey was starting to feel surreal again. Was she sure she wasn't living in a dream? She turned . . . and nearly doubled over when her ribs screamed in protest. _Nope. Not a dream. Definitely, not a dream._

God, she needed to remember to move more slowly. Just because the pain was getting easier to manage, all thanks to Óin, did not mean she could start jumping around. Not that she was exactly jumping, _per say,_ but -

"Miss Martin?"

Thorin Oakenshield, leader of the Company of Dwarves, suddenly stepped out of the shadows of the nearest wall but, the look on his face was not an encouraging sight to say the least. Cate felt her heart sink to the bottom of her sneakers. Oh, Good Lord. Now what had she done? Or not done? Whatever the matter was Dwalin and Balin stood on either side of him, their own faces just as grim. An even further sign that something was definitely wrong. She spared a quick glance at Bilbo, who seemed as equally as puzzled and concerned as she felt.

"Come with us, if you please." Balin, son of Fundin, at that very moment looked every bit the Lord Cate knew him to be. Knowing that, it really unsettled her to see no sign of 'it's all going to be alright' in his tired old eyes.

She really didn't 'please' but, knowing the request for what it really was (a formality), she stepped forward and followed suit.

Or she would have if a hand hadn't reached out and stopped her.

Bilbo Baggins was glaring again. At Thorin no less, and looked very much like he was going to say something that would spark a fight. If there was one thing Cate had had enough of for the past two days, it was fighting. Whether it was of the sword variety or the one with words, they needed to stop going around in circles over her. Really, it was getting tiresome and annoying and why couldn't they all go back to ignoring her again? Oh. Right. That was her own fault now, wasn't it? Just had to stick her damn nose in it and get Bilbo nearly killed, not to mention herself. Really, she couldn't be more of an idiot if she tried. So far, she was certainly giving it her best shot for 'most likely to die outright' on the first half of the journey. God, she'd give anything to be back at home with her books, her cats, her own house, and a decent bed.

 _Not for Bilbo's life, you wouldn't._

Well, there was that.

Damned conscious.

"It's fine, Master Baggins." She peeled away Bilbo's fingers, trying really hard not to look at him. "Really. Why don't you give Myrtle one of my apples, huh? They're in the side pocket on the right."

"She's already had one," he protested firmly. "She doesn't need -"

"Please, Bilbo."

That did it. The 'please' _and_ the 'Bilbo'. She had only called him by his given name twice since they met. Once when she had been trying to convince him to come in the first place and the second when the Orc had attacked them on the plains. Both had been important situations that called for him to listen. And, right now, she really needed him to listen.

"I'm be fine. Why don't you introduce Tolkien to her, properly. See if they can't be friends?" It was a false hope she was clinging to. Anything to get him to let her go without a scene. Out of the corner of her eye, Cate saw him shoot her a look of utter betrayal.

"Where are you taking her?" Bilbo demanded hotly, his ire now trained on Thorin and the Dwarf Lords beside him. "What has she done? What is it that you can't say in front of the rest of us?!"

This only served to draw the rest of the Company to a standstill. Everyone stopped. No one moved.

And Cate suddenly felt as if she was standing in the middle of a courtroom.

"'Tis a hearing, Master Baggins," Balin's words felt like cold knives in her blood. "Now come, everyone."

* * *

Balin, son of Fundin, did not like this in the least.

This was entirely unnecessary. Beyond that, in fact. There wasn't much to have a hearing over, save for Dori's disputes to be made public and the lass shamed and humiliated for it. Nonetheless, the jeopardy of the Company lay at stake all thanks to Dori's tongue. It had to be addressed and sorted before they could move forward with their Quest and before the entirety of the Company in order to discourage any grudges. This would not at all be nice and poor Miss Martin would be the one to suffer the most. Balin could see a vein move in Thorin's temple out of the corner of his sharp eye and that, above all else, spoke of everything the Lord needed to know about his king's opinion on the matter. Mahal forgive them, Miss Martin would likely never trust a one of them after this.

And for all of Thorin's hopes to spare her.

Confound Dori and his tongue, _indeed!_

"We, Lords of the House of Durin, do declare this hearing open." Balin began solemnly and without pause. "We call upon Master Dori, son of our house, to bring forth his dispute against Miss Catelynn Martin, Daughter of Men."

The color promptly drain from Miss Martin's face. A dawning realization falling across her features and Balin's heart felt sick at the sight of it. Truly, this was but a farce.

The entire Company erupted into chaos.

"Curse ye, Dori! I knew ye couldn' leave it be!"

"Son of half-troll!"

"Oi! Who ya callin' a troll?!

 _"Him._ An' I'll have a go at anyone else who thinks otherwise!"

"What in the _blazes_ were you thinking, Dori?!"

"You can't talk to my brother like _that!_ "

This carried on for several moments, despite Balin's and Dwalin's vain attempts to stay the madness. For utter madness, it was. And, in the middle of it all, stood Miss Martin, face pale like spoiled milk, still as a statue. Her eyes, however, were not fixed upon her accuser but on the king. The sheer amount of shock there was enough for Balin to find the will to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Order, I say!" The Lord of Durin cried over the din, voice high and sharp. "Order in the name of the king!"

 _"Silence!"_

Dwarrow, Hobbit, and Daughter of Men alike all jumped at the righteous fury of the future King Under the Mountain. Silence did fall then, quick as a mountain rockfall, with nothing else to be heard but the chirping of the morning Thrush. Balin then looked to his brother and gave a single, firm nod of approval. Returning the gesture, Dwalin left Thorin's right side to stand beside Miss Martin to act on her defense.

"Now," said Balin, straightening his coat and rolling out his shoulders. He extended a hand to Dori and gestured him forward. "Master Dori, if you would please, bring forth your dispute with the accused."

The graying Dwarrow adjusted his beard and smoothed down his front upon approach. Coming to stand beside Balin, he raised his head proudly, and began, "The Lady of Men known as Miss Catelynn Martin risked not only Dwarven lives in her foolishness but, nearly killed our most trusted Burglar for whom this very Quest relies so very heavily on. Not only this, but I wish to bring forth a _personal_ grudge against her. For she risked the life of my brother, Nori, who went into battle on the simple whim of a foolish woman who hasn't the sense to stay put when _told!_ "

Another call to silence had to be made by Thorin before anything further could be said. Ori and Nori, had, in fact, taken their brother's side of things while Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur had taken upon the lass' case. Each stood opposite from one another, glaring daggers and lobbing insults. Not only that but Óin and Glóin, ever in usual agreement, had split as well. The healer for the lass and the accountant for his fellow Dwarf. The only two left who had yet to say anything at all, were Fíli and Kíli; both of whom looked equally as stunned and out of place as Miss Martin undoubtedly felt.

"Anything _else_ you wish to add Master Dori?" Balin asked tonelessly.

"Yes," because _of course_ , he had. "She also endangered the lives of our King and Crown Prince, both of whom could have fallen. Needlessly, if I may add. And, do forgive me, Sires, but if that had indeed come to pass I would have wished for _blood._ "

At that moment, Miss Martin swung wildly about; her face alight with horror. Her already bloodless face had, if possible, become even more so. Facing her accuser now, she shook. _Hard._

"And what does the Lady wish to say in her defense?"

She turned back to Balin, her color a pale green now, as if she wished to be ill. She swallowed thickly and glanced upwards at Dwalin as if to ask, 'what do I say to _that?_ '. Dwalin leaned down and whispered some piece of advice which Balin already had an inkling of.

"I-I-," her voice was most unsteady and her hands shook so hard that, even clasped together as they were, it did not to hide the fear she so obviously felt. Her pale blue eyes found Thorin's and, from there, she discovered her voice. "I wish v-very much to apologize, Your M-Majesty, f-for the risking o-of your men, the l-lives of your n-nephew and y-yourself, and that of M-Master B-Baggins. M-my actions, thoughtless and n-naive, could have c-cost you great s-sorrow. N-not only f-for your H-House, but for that o-of your Q-Quest." A great, hard tremor came upon her then and, this time, her whole, small frame shook as if from the blast of a hurricane. She swallowed again, loud and with a full hiccup, and very nearly looked to faint. "I-I beseech y-you, Great L-Lords. I-I meant n-no harm upon you or y-your k-kin. I have n-nothing to o-offer you b-but my words and an o-oath that such a t-thing shall n-not happen a-again."

Mahal, this was indeed pitiful. The once strong and hearty Daughter of Men had been made low by the sheer whim of a vengeful Dwarf and a group of Lords who chose their own kind for the sake of a Quest that may, or may not, be doomed to fail. For what was the worth of one lonely Lady compared to their Homeland, long lost to them as it was, when she had even less than they? Balin found he could not say the closing words, so stuck as they were in his throat, full of shame and regret.

"We shall accept your oath, Catelynn Martin, Daughter of Men." Thorin, however, may Mahal bless him and all his days, took up what Balin could not and ended it for all. "Master Dori, you shall accept her promise for your brother's life. There is no longer any grudge between you."

Dori stepped forward then, further words upon his lips.

"You _shall_ accept her oath." Thorin insisted firmly, his eyes darkening as he spoke. "No blood was spilled, no blood will be offered. An oath is all she can give, so an oath you shall accept."

"As you wish, Your Majesty." The graying Dwarf bowed in head in respect, his eyes downcast. Then, he turned to Miss Martin who flinched so violently, Dwalin himself had to wrapped his massive arm about her shoulders to keep her upright. "I take your oath, Daughter of Men. I shall hold you to it."

"M-my thanks, M-Master Dwarf," she murmured so softly, anyone further away from Dwalin or Dori could barely hear her.

Balin straighten himself, made a gesture for all to see, and extended his hand to Thorin.

The future king nodded solemnly to his council, then addressed the Companies as one whole. "The House of Durin bears the Daughter of Men no further grudge. No ill will lies between us and no payment beyond her oath is required. Thus says I, Thorin Oakenshield, Prince of Erebor. This hearing is concluded."

A long drawn out silence fell then, cold and cheerless. She did not look at them, her eyes remaining downcast. For a long while, no one spoke. And then . . .

"Miss Martin?"

The Hobbit came forth, his hand outstretched to take her own; his face pale and equally as frightened. When his fingers found hers however, the reaction was instant and made Balin wince with sympathy. Miss Martin drew away, eyes still lowered, unseeing to all around her.

 _"Don't."_

It was soft, like a fledglings wing. Quiet, barely heard by those present. There was no bite or fire. No fierceness or strength. There was nothing. Only the slow breaking of a fragile heart, caught in the gale of Dwarves, Wizards, and all evil things.

The strange Lady Who Fell From The Ceiling, who bore a quiet strength and unyielding spirit, stood breaking in the middle of a crumbling watchtower.

Entirely alone.


	3. In Which, The Companies Discover a River

**Chapter Three**

 **In Which, The Two Companies Discover a River**

* * *

Kíli and Fíli rode together, as always, but they were strangely silent and very morose.

Neither one was for sharing in their love of stories or holding their own secret council (of which no one else was privy to partake in). Little more than half the day had passed since the Company had left the old, gloomy watchtower. Personally, Kíli couldn't be more grateful to get away from the place. He had hoped the change of scenery would brighten things a bit but that hope had long since faded before they had even stopped for lunch. Not much of anything had been spoken by anyone, save for the low and secretive council kept by Balin, Dwalin, and Uncle. Indeed, there was no distraction to be found from the grim cloud which had fallen upon them all.

Of course, the sun was bright and high in the sky and the birds were singing and everything was just so very _beautiful._ That was a true injustice. Here they had been traveling for three days and nights through horrid weather and at the first chance of a pleasant day, they couldn't even enjoy it. Kíli almost wished it would start to rain again; if only to match his own glumness. What right did the world have to look so very happy when it _clearly_ was not the time to be so? There was absolutely _nothing_ to be cheerful about.

Something hard nudged his knee.

Turning in his saddle, Kíli discovered Fíli there beside him; his brother's pony drawn far closer than what was considered safe. The thing bumping against his knee was, in fact, his brother's. Irritated from being drawn out of his thoughts, Kíli matched this by drawing back his own and returning the gesture. Only, he made sure his 'nudge' was a little harder than Fíli's had been. It worked. His older brother made a grunt of soreness but took the warning for what it was and backed off. Now aware of Fíli's presence however, Kíli could see the moody expression and the slight sinking of his shoulders for what they were. He wagered his brother was no more happy with the sullen atmosphere than anyone else and merely only wanted familiar company to ease the tension.

A wave of guilt crashed upon Kíli then and his hands tightened upon the reins. He hadn't meant it like _that_. Oh! Why did Dori have to bring it all up again? Why couldn't he had left it all alone and buried? They could be having lovely conversations now. He could have asked Miss Martin all his questions by now (or at least half of them) and she would have been kind and patient enough to answer. He could have told her all about the time Fíli couldn't shoot an arrow to save his skin. How it had been Kíli himself to teach his older brother long after Uncle had grown frustrated and abandoned the idea. It would have been a nice story. It would have made her laugh.

He wondered what she sounded like when she laughed. Though now, he supposed he would never know. The thought made him all the more sad. She had only ever smiled when Master Boggins (really, he did know the hobbit's name. It was only far too much fun to tease him) was the one speaking with her.

 _And now, even that is ruined._ He thought bitterly, his grip on the reins caused the leather to creak threateningly.

The Hobbit's friendship with her had been strained to the point of breaking. That is, if it wasn't already. She hadn't spoken a word, not to anyone. She barely looked at any of them. She may have been riding just behind Uncle, Balin, and Dwalin but, she wasn't _with_ them. She wasn't _here._ Kíli wondered if she was thinking of her home, much like Master Baggins did every now and then (he could always tell by the far off look on the hobbit's face). He hoped she had been happy there.

 _Now there's a daft thought. Of course she'd been happy. It was her_ home, _wherever that was._ He grimaced, frustration driving him mad.

Why did Dori have to ruin _everything?_

Oh. Right.

It was Dori.

Kíli was extremely tempted to announce his own legal action against the Dwarrow for outright slander of character. Yes, see Dori try to get out of _that._ He would call Fíli as his first witness, yes that was a good start, and then -

"Whatever yer thinking lad, ye best put it out o' yer head."

He scowled. It was not fair every thought showed plain as day on his face for everyone else to see. Not fair at all.

"I wasn't thinking anything," he denied halfheartedly with a shrug. Curse it all, he couldn't even _lie_ convincingly.

Bofur was not fooled; not even in the least bit. "I know yer no' pleased. None o' us are. But causin' further trouble won' help anyone." He paused for a moment and then said quietly, "Least o' all, _her._ "

Now, Kíli was _angry._

"What are we supposed to _do,_ Bofur?" He hissed lowly (he did not want anyone else to hear), throwing out an arm and gesturing wildly at Miss Martin's back. " _Look_ at her. She's . . . We cannot just -"

"I _know,_ lad. Ye think I don' feel the same?" The miner clearly wasn't in a gracious mood; his trusty hat was falling nearly off the side of his head. His own face darkened, voice tinted with barely controlled anger. "By Mahal's beard, all this trouble came abou' from fools no' keepin' their blasted gobs _shut._ "

"So, that's it, then?" Kíli asked coolly, eyes hardening. "We do _nothing._ "

"Sometime's lad," Bofur's sigh was a long, drawn out thing. He pinched the the bridge of his nose, eyes tight in exhaustion. "doin' nothin' is the best thin' fer it. Give it time. She may yet come 'round."

"No," Kíli shook his head detrimentally, "I don't think she will Bofur. If it where me, _I_ certainly wouldn't."

They said nothing else for the next few leagues. The silence stretched ever onward, suffocating them with their own guilt and frustration.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins had never felt more alone than at that very moment.

Not since he started this hare-brained scheme of a journey, that is. Whatever had he been thinking, running out his door the way he had? Truly, this was a foolish venture and he more the fool. He could just imagine what his neighbors were saying at this moment. All sorts of wild tales about being swept off by Dwarves and an old Wizard (not to mention a very strange Lady of the Big Folk). Confound Gandalf! Really, he should have stayed home with his books and his tea and a nice, well constructed roof over his head! However did he manage to be convinced by such utter nonsense?!

Oh.

Far ahead, Miss Martin and her black pony followed behind Thorin and the elders; her head down, hood up, and disposition perfectly sullen. A tinge of shame gnawed at the poor hobbit's stomach and he felt full regret for ever thinking such selfish negatives. True, he would not be here if not for the Miss. Not on this journey, not out about in the Wilds, and he currently would not have been knocked about by a wretched Orc either. And yet, he would not have made so fondly a friend as Bofur. He wouldn't have tried Dwarven pipe weed (nasty stuff as it was) or seen an ancient watchtower from a bygone Age. He would have most certainly be dead from that Orc if Miss Martin had not have blindsided it herself and taken a beating in his stead.

He would not have had her companionship if not for her.

 _Not that it mattered much now._ The thought alone sent a wave of fury welling up from Bilbo's chest.

He was here because Miss Martin thought him a thoroughly capable hobbit. He was here because, at the end of it all, it had been his choice to come. What of her choice? What choice did she have but to travel East in search for answers which not even Gandalf the Grey could give her? What choice did she have but to suffer the presence of Thorin and Company, whom none seemed to spare her much thought? What choice did she have but to face Orcs and bad weather and weeks on end with not a chance for a warm bath in sight? What was her choice but to go forth in search of a home she could no longer go backwards to find?

Bilbo Baggins could turn around at this very moment and, if he held true to the path behind him, would once again find his hole in the ground. All his comforts and keepsakes would be there, waiting for his return. Not so for Miss Martin. There was nothing for her in Bag End. Not unless she could fall back through his dinning room ceiling and find herself in the safety of her own home.

He sighed, all the anger burning out of him at once. Oh, it was hopeless. Confound the Dwarves! Every single one of them! He had half a mind to tell Thorin to find a new Burglar altogether. He swore he wouldn't tolerate anymore mistreatment of her and the spectacle that had been second breakfast certainly qualified as mistreatment in his mind. Whatever was the point of dragging her in front of them all and parading her about in such a manner? Hadn't the private audience with Thorin been enough? Hadn't amends been made?

There was nothing for it. When Gandalf returned, Bilbo would have a word with him. Maybe the Wizard's added presence would sort out the mess the Dwarves had made of things.

"Look, up ahead!" Balin shouted from near the front of the column, hand outstretched and pointing towards something in the near distance.

Bilbo had to crane his neck and sit up higher in his saddle before he could follow the Dwarf's line of sight. At first, he thought it was the grouping of trees at the bottom of the rocky hill they were currently descending which had caught the accountant's eye. However, upon readjusting the angle of Balin's arm as a reference, saw that it wasn't the cluster of trees that had his attention. Beyond the trees, maybe a half league further, was a river.

And a good thing too, for most of their waterskins had since run out in the last hour and tea-time (ah, Bilbo remembered tea-time) had been two hours before that. Needless to say, they needed a chance to refill their skins and find a place to bed down before night fell. Bilbo wasn't keen on a repeat of last night, what with the ghastly wind, horrid lighting, and burning trees and all. In fact, their past five or so nights had not exactly been a walking holiday down to Waymeet (not that he enjoyed Waymeet, all things considered).

"A river." Dwalin reached over and gave his brother a heavy clap on the back. "Well spotted, Balin. Should be there in . . ." He pondered for a moment, judging the distance and who knows what else, then said. "About two hours time, I would say. Thorin?"

"Aye," Thorin nodded in agreement. "Would seem the way of it. Let us get down this blasted hill and through the grove there. We will see far better on even ground."

The message was passed down the column and up and then back down once more (just to be sure) before the Company began to descend the rocky crag of the hill. It was slow going. The rain into the deep valley below had washed away a great portion of the path. Bilbo's poor pony, Myrtle, nearly took her own tumble off the side. It was thanks to Master Bifur's quick thinking that they did not end up at the bottom sooner than the hobbit would have liked.

"Steady lad." Master Óin said, coming up on Bilbo's left and giving him a hard wack on the shoulder. "No need ta be in such a hurry."

Here the elderly Dwarf offered him a cheerful wink before setting off again.

"A 'hurry', indeed." Bilbo grumbled irritably under his breath, guiding Myrtle carefully down the rest of the way. "As if I would be in a _'hurry'_ for that. Truly, the humor of Dwarves I doubt I will ever understand."

He prayed to Yavanna the river was a lot closer than it appeared.

* * *

Bombur was tired. Very tired. All too tired for his own liking. And it was nearly time for supper.

 _Hmm_ _. Supper._ Now there was a pleasant thought.

Perhaps he should make something other than stew tonight. There was that bit of mutton he had stored away for something special and a large loaf of fine bread he nicked from Master Baggin's storeroom (he doubt the hobbit would miss it too much). He still had a small tub of churned butter; oh yes, that would compliment the bread nicely. Oh! And the salted pork! Yes, there was plenty enough of that to go around at least three times over. Yes, yes! Splendid idea!

While Bombur was thinking of supper and butter, the Company at last broke through the treeline. The sky was turning a soft orange in the early evening light and a soft breeze picked almost playfully at their beards. The road ceased its sharp twisting and turning, instead sloping gently downward as the ponies made their way along. It was, altogether, rather pleasant and there seemed to be not a ill sight to look upon in all directions. The hills appeared friendly enough and the grass was green and wild. There were even small patches of wildflowers with vibrant hues of purples and reds and yellows which blessed the entire picture with splashes of wonderful color. The question of the river, however, was as easily answered. It lay just ahead, far closer than Thorin and Dwalin had guessed.

But, something about it suddenly caused Bombur to stop in his musings of dinner altogether.

"Bless me!" He cried, taking in the wrathful sight. "It's overrun!"

Indeed, the river was in a righteous fury. The past few days and nights of torrential rain flowing down from the Northern mountains had caused the water to rise far beyond what its banks could hold. The willows bordering its far side bent and creaked to the power of the torrent. Indeed, crossing would be nigh impossible. They would be swept away before they even made it halfway over.

"We can't cross _that._ "

"We'll all be drowned!"

"Bloody rain'll have the ground all sodden. The ponies'll sink the closer we get!"

"This is a right fine mess!"

And on and on and on it went. The exclamations of alarm became shouts of frustration and, in-between it all, Master Baggins was attempting to make peace. However, no one paid the Hobbit the least bit of mind and so, he too, joined in the ruckus. This only caused the Company to rise in further volume in the vain attempt to be heard over everyone else. There was no sign of stopping until every Dwarrow and Hobbit was red in the face and short of breath. By then, they were all the more tired and hungry.

All fourteen of them.

* * *

Cate merely rolled her eyes and gave Tolkien an encouraging nudge forward.

 _Let them sit there and argue all day. I couldn't care less._

Really, all they had to do was look a little further down the river, where the path _clearly_ turned, and followed the water a ways and they would have seen the damn bridge. It wasn't hidden by trees or a hill, it was right there! But, no. They had to stop and stare at the goddamn river and _whine_ over the fact it had flooded in the first place. After all the rain they had, what did they expect? Who cared if the ground was muddy or the water was high (not that she was thrilled about the mud but, she couldn't change it now _could_ she)? There was a bridge and it looked sturdy enough from here, so that's where she was going. Whether Thorin and Company wanted to come along was _entirely_ up to them. She wasn't going to wait all damn day for them to make up their minds.

"Honestly Tolkien," she began, giving the pony a comforting pat on his neck. "Dwarves are ridiculous. They really are. I'd like to kick one of them in and see if they can swim."

Preferably Dori if she had the chance. Thorin would be a very close second.

"You and I can make a game out of it," Cate went on pleasantly, thoroughly enjoying the idea. "We'll call it, 'Follow the Bouncing Dwarf'."

She raised a finger to the horizon and mimed a bouncing motion, grinning as the invisible Dwarf hurried along to whatever fate awaited him down the river. She laughed. It was her first of the day and only fitting that it came at a Dwarf's expense.

"Yes, that would be fun." She smiled to herself and allowed a brief moment of self-satisfaction.

Too bad it didn't last longer.

"Miss Martin!"

Damn.

"Wait, Miss!"

No.

She wasn't going to _wait._ She was going to cross that bridge on her own terms and because she could. She didn't need anyone's permission for that. There wasn't any danger. She wasn't even out of _sight._ Or hearing, for that matter. She didn't need to be glued to the Company's hip all day as if she were a child. Reasonably close? Yes. But, side by side all the way to Rivendell? Hell no. _Especially_ not after this morning. They could take that and shove it up their -

"Lass, wait fer us!"

Nope. She was half tempted to snark at them to catch her but that really would have been childish _and_ proven their point. So, she didn't. What she _did_ do was give Tolkien's reins a sharp flick and together the pair kicked up a fair amount of mud in order to get a head start.

"Last one over the bridge gets the firewood!" She cried over her shoulder.

 _Ha! Eat_ that!

They _flew._

And it was _wonderful._

Tolkien had strong legs and a wide stride for a pony. He didn't seem at all phased by the mud but rather perfectly happy to be able to stretch his legs in a fierce bout of exercise. They covered the distance quickly, the sound of pounding hooves right behind them and echoing in Cate's ears to go _faster._ She glanced behind her, careful to keep her injured wrist steady. The Company was at least six lengths back and gave no indication of catching up. She had this in the bag.

"Let's go, boy!"

Keeping Tolkien at a steady pace, they rounded a slight bend. The bridge was old and made out of ancient gray stone that, while obviously weathered, gave no indication of being in poor repair. Not missing a beat, they crossed quickly. Cate took a particular enjoyment in hearing Tolkien's hooves _clack! clack!_ against the stone as they went. It was a welcome, almost musical sound that she hadn't heard since Bilbo and herself had crossed they bridge in Hobbiton. She turned Tolkien about when they reached the close treeline just in time to watch the Company cross over (one at a time) and couldn't keep the shit-eating grin from crossing over her face.

Thorin had crossed first (because of course he had); Dwalin and Balin followed looking at a baffled loss; Fíli and Kíli trotted not far after; Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur were very worn out by the looks of things, Nori, Ori, and Dori brought up the last of the Dwarves but honestly she couldn't care in the least, and finally poor Bilbo Baggins came over last. He was bent over Myrtle's neck, trying to catch his breath, and seemed very close to complete exhaustion.

For the first time since this whole damned mess started, Cate couldn't bring herself to feel guilty. Considering the entire group would have stood there all evening complaining about things they had no control over, she had plenty of reasons to give for forcing their hand. It was worth it in the end. Now, they could make dinner and if they wanted to yell at her some more, than sure, go ahead. She was just _itching_ for a fight.

" _That_ was a merry chase you lead us on, Lass." Dwalin announced stiffly as he dropped down from his pony.

"Oh?" Cate raised a brow and swung her leg over the side. She unfastened her pack, one-handed, from its strap (Bilbo's handiwork had held all the way) and started rummaging around for her matches. "Well, at least you lot aren't still back at the grove arguing. And would you just _look_ at that?" She glanced upwards, putting a hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun. She pointed at the sky, "Plenty of time to get dinner going _and_ a decent start on a good night's rest. I don't know about you but, I'm _bushed._ "

She knew she was laying it on rather thick and very sarcastically too. Again, she couldn't find the will to care. _Ah!_ She found the matches. Now for the stones. She started combing the ground, ignoring the Company entirely. Let them moan and groan or whatever else they wanted. At least they could do it while she had some food and sleep.

* * *

Bofur winced.

Oh, she was _riled._ It was plain as day in the stiff way she hunted for stones and gathered her firewood (apparently her challenge only applied to them and so poor Bilbo was off looking for kindling). The way she pointedly dismissed their presence was enough for Thorin to advise strict orders to leave her be and to take care of her own camp. She had done it before, she was capable of doing so now. So, they focused on settling their own space and left her to herself. At the present moment Miss Martin wasn't far off, having settled down under the shadow of a great oak. Her back was turned to them and her black pony had taken up a silent watch beside her as if to ward off any unwelcome visitors. The beast, Bofur found, was one of the strangest things about her. It was of good stock and unnaturally intelligent. Ordinarily, a beast like that one would have a priced a decent piece. How she came by it, she never explained.

Pony aside, the miner couldn't help but feel sorry for the current state of things. Which had all been made worse by the arguing and grumbling over the state of the river. The fact that none of them had taken notice of the bridge still bothered at least half of the Company. The other half merely shrugged and chose to focus on the supper currently roasting over the spit. Indeed, Bombur seemed to think that three days of stew was much too much and that mutton was the perfect choice to liven things a bit. Bofur had to admit, mutton did sound like a welcome change. Though, he wished the lass could have a bite.

The sky was just starting to darken, the sun's light changing from golden yellow to rosy pink to bruising purple when the unthinkable happened.

Bombur's pack pony startled at nothing, rearing up with a strangled shriek, and broke its line with a sharp and terrible _snap!_

"Oi!" Nori's warning rose high in the air as he jumped to his feet. "It's boltin'!"

There was a mad dash to catch the beast (it still had bags of foodstuff latched to its back) and Bofur himself only managed to grab hold of the line before it took off entirely. It wasn't near enough. The fear had gotten to the blasted creature beyond the point of control and it made a mad run for the river, screaming bloody murder. And with the poor miner still firmly attached on the other end. Bofur hit the forest floor with bruising force and barely had enough time to catch his wits before he was already being pulled along at breakneck speed.

"Stop it, Bofur!'

"Don't let go, lad!"

"Brother!"

Bofur could hear his kin and mates giving chase behind him but the spooked creature was moving far too fast. Somewhere along the way, he lost his hat. Then, he hit a boulder, half-buried in the soil, and that was that. The sheer smarting of his ribs was enough for him to cry out in pain and lose his hold entirely. The rope and pony gone, he clutched at his side and rose to his knees in time to see the foolish creature hit the water.

 _Well,_ Bofur thought grimly. _That's it for Bombur's butter._

That was, until he saw two shapes, one light and one dark, dive in after it.

"Fíli!"

"Kíli!"

The miner's blood turned cold.

* * *

Thorin's blood went to ice in a matter of moments as he watched his nephews disappear under the roaring waters.

"No!" He roared and bounded forward.

A black bur rushed passed him at such great a speed, it nearly took him with it. He stumbled and collapsed to one knee. Shaking his head, braids whipping about his cheeks, he rose to his feet and nearly lost his balance twice over. The black bur rushed the river and leaped into the raging torrid; an even smaller shape launched itself headlong from the pony's back and promptly disappeared under a white wave of water.

"Dori! Nori! Dwalin!" Thorin ordered sharply, turning about and rushing back to the fire. "Grab whatever line we have! Quickly, _now!_ "

They searched through every pack, upturning contents and supplies every which way until they found four large lengths of rope. Items now in hand, they hurried back towards the river and to the struggling black beast trying to make its way back to shore. It slipped once, twice, and nearly followed its partner under the water.

"Get a line on it!" Thorin ordered Dwalin, who immediately tied a rope about his waist and grabbed another from Nori.

The burly Dwarf waded into the angry river, line in hand, and reached for the bridle of the black pony. Grabbing hold, he saw there was already another rope attached to the saddle, pulled taunt and creaking from strain. The other end was somewhere underneath the crashing water. Taking note of this, Dwalin quickly attached his own and, glancing about, searched for any sign of the princes or the black blur that had jumped in to save them.

Nothing.

Feeling helpless, Dwalin cursed and swore fiercely under his breath before bellowing to shore. "I've go' it! Pull us in!"

Nori, who had Dwalin's safety line in hand, drew the warrior close enough to the edge where Bofur and Bifur pulled him to safety. Dori had thrown a line downstream a ways, where he was already pulling Bombur's pony to ground. The stupid creature trotted out, whole, and seemingly uninjured. Yet it's back was bare, lacking in the sacks of much needed food. Thorin, Bombur, Glóin, Óin, and Ori were all struggling to heave Miss Martin's beast in to shore. Dwalin and the others joined them and, all together, made short work pulling the pony in. It struggled to gain footing but, after two near failures, the creature finally made it to land. The spare line attached to the saddle was still taunt, the other end sunk deep within the river.

"Help me!" With a strangled roar, Dwalin reached for the safety line and started to pull. "They're still in there! _PULL!_ "

They heaved and hoed for several long minutes until, at last, three heads emerged from the waterline coughing and sputtering.

 _Alive._

Dropping his section of line, Thorin bounded forward in a rush for the shore. Taking handfuls of whatever he could grasp, he pulled all three into the warmth of his arms and dragged them into the barest reaches of the firelight. They were sopping. They were cold. All three were practically half-drowned. But, they were breathing and strongly at that. Thorin's hands shook as he pressed weathered hands against the faces of his sister-sons, feeling the air move through them. At that moment, Fíli and Kíli's eyes opened; though clearly tired and worn to the bone, they met his gaze and smiled sheepishly.

"H-hello, Uncle," said Kíli.

"D-did we get it?" asked Fíli.

He shook his head in slight bemusement of his nephews.

"You will never," Thorin felt his heart catch in his throat and he paused. When he spoke again, it felt like another's voice. " _Never_ do something as foolish as that ever again. Is that _clear?_ "

"Y-yes, Uncle." They both agreed together and fell silent, shivering in the darkness.

"Here," Dwalin appeared on his right, presenting blankets and bedrolls. "We best get them by the fire."

Bundling them all in a new layer of warmth, Dwalin and Dori each took Fíli and Kíli respectively and made their way up the incline towards the campfire.

"A-are they a-alright?"

Thorin, still kneeling, glanced down at the young woman lying prone upon the grass. One lowly blue eye gazed up at him, half-glazed over from cold and terror. He leaned over and wrapped the remaining blanket about her; then removed his furred vest and lay that over her as well.

"Hush, Lady Who Falls Through Ceilings." He whispered softly, brushing her sodden curls from her face. She shivered. "Hush. They live. And you will rest by our fire tonight and you will sleep and know no fear."

"N-no fear," She hummed softly, closing her eyes. "S-sounds n-nice."

Thorin gathered her up and rose, careful of her injured hand. Still fighting a wave of all encompassing fear, he breathed quietly, "I thank you, for the life of my sister-sons. On behalf of the House of Durin. Upon my line-"

"T-Thorin."

He paused, eyebrows raised in great surprise. Never before had she used his given name without its title. But then, she could barely speak as it was.

"D-don't need any t-thanks." She sputtered, shaking fiercely in his arms. "A-as long as t-they're o-okay-"

"They are strong lads." He replied, pulling her closer. "And they will be made all the stronger because of your efforts. Now, sleep Daughter of Men. You are weary and deserve much rest."

"Hmm," Miss Martin sighed and the tension eased from her face. "A-alright, then."

Within moments, she was asleep.


	4. There is the Matter of Fires (& Trolls)

**I hope this chapter is to everyone's liking! Please enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

 **In Which, There is the Matter of Fires (and Trolls)**

* * *

Still, Gandalf had not returned.

Balin had not seen him since the early hours of the morning and now it was far into the night. Not only that, but mischief had gotten into their fire and the wind had started up again. Despite Óin and Glóin's efforts, for they were the best at lighting fires, they could not rekindle the flames. With the fire dead and the wind howling, the Company had no choice but to move into the trees for cover. It did no good; still a fire refused to be lit and now the healer and the accountant were on the brink of a righteous row. And then the rain started. First, as a mere light mist; then it escalated into a steady rain-shower. It found its way into the fire pit and dosed any further hope of a warm bonfire. The brink had become a precipice, one which every Dwarrow present seemed ready to step off of.

"Bifur, give me yer coat," Bofur's hushed whisper barely rose above the voice of the rain. The wind issued a low whistle and a sharp gust sent a shiver down Balin's spine, though he himself was not cold. "Poor lass' near ta freezing."

Dwarrows where a hearty folk; they did not so easily feel the cold or wind. Snow and rain barely gave them much trouble (save for when it piled higher than their waists or flooded rivers) and heat could hardly raise so much as a sweat from their brows unless it was from a forge or hard labor. In all forms of weather, their race endured.

Miss Martin, however, was _not_ a Dwarrowdam.

A blanket, Thorin's prized furred vest, and now even Bifur's coat was doing nothing to stave off the wind and rain. It blew right through her and dampened her head, causing shivers to rack her small form. S _mall._ As if such a word could possibly describe the Lady Who Fell From Ceilings (Balin was growing rather fond of the title). No. He would not call her small. _Fierce_ was more accurate. Sturdy would be another. And ridiculously stubborn. Yet, she appeared to be none of those things. Not now. Not after being pulled from a river, half-drowned and bordering on ill. Her face was pale; even in the bleakness of the night Balin could see it with his sharp eyes. Curse this mischief, whatever it was.

She was going to catch her death.

"She's sick, isn't she?" Filí asked solemnly, mouth frowning as another shiver made its way through her.

Óin scowled darkly and when he spoke, it was blunt and grim. "Curse Men and all their frailty. _Blast it_ , Brother, get this fire going."

"I would if I _could."_ Glóin growled, clearly not appreciating the needling as he bent over his handiwork and started again. After several moments with no sign of productivity, he cursed and threw up his hands. "Oh, it's _useless_."

"It's our fault." Kilí moaned, wrapped tightly in a bedroll, hands pulling absently at his hair. His young face was twisted in guilt and raw concern. "If we hadn't have fallen in, she wouldn't have jumped in after us. We shouldn't have - She'll - She'll _die,_ won't she?"

Thorin frowned immediately at that and chided harshly, "She will _not_ die."

And so the matter was put to rest, for the time being, as no one wished to entertain the idea any longer.

"T-thats right," came a tiny, shaky voice from beneath one wool blanket, a furred vest, and a heavy overcoat. A lone, pale blue eye stared back at them through rain sodden red curls. "N-not dying. No w-way."

The sheer amount of forced confidence poured into those few, small words were enough for Balin to wish to pluck out his beard. Here, even now, she was trying to be brave; trying to hide from them all the pain and uncertainty and _weakness_ she undoubtedly must be feeling. The guilt Balin had been coping with since that morning returned, tenfold. She should not lay there, trying to smile and pretend out sheer concern they would think less of her. Yet, who had reinforced the idea? Who gave her reason to retract her trust and friendship? This false bravado had only come about because they, whether intended or not, betrayed her feelings and courtesy time and time again.

"That's enough of that."

Balin swung his head about, startled.

Dori had risen from his place on the other side of the pit, posture stiff and hands clenched. Within three great strides, he crossed the distance and stood, almost menacing, over her curled form. The entire air changed then, the Company as a whole on the ready for a terrible confrontation. Balin immediately stood as well, his old bones creaking audibly as he did so, while Bofur placed a hand over the lady's bundled shoulder, mouth set in a grim line and eyes fierce with retaliation.

"Don' ye start on 'er, ye-"

The miner only got so far before Dori knelt down to one knee and removed his coat.

"Shut that gob of yours, Bofur." The graying Dwarrow did not even spare him so much as a glance. "You're going to start shouting and then how will she sleep with all that racket? _Honestly._ "

He draped the fabric over Miss Martin, careful to tuck in the ends and wind the sleeves under her to prevent it from coming lose. Once this was completed, Dori got to his feet and returned to his place on the opposite side of the camp. He settled down and closed his eyes.

No one spoke, much too shocked to say anything.

"Thank you." This time, her words did not waver and her voice came out clear as a brass bell.

Balin watched, _stunned,_ as Dori opened one eye and spared her a passing glance, expression unchanged. "I'll hold you to that. The 'no dying' bit. Don't start breaking your oaths now, Miss Martin. I won't forgive you in the least if you do."

And then he closed his eye once more, seemingly to have forgotten he had spoken at all.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins was just coming to the conclusion that adventures were highly unpleasant things and not at all pony rides in the sunshine, when he noticed something odd in the far off distance.

Rising from his spot on a raised root, he squinted through the rain and tried to make it out. Deeper into the forest, the land turned upwards into a knob-like hill and on that knob there was a light. A bright, red one peaking through the trees all warm and comfortable-like. Now, being as he was the one on look-out, he wondered if he should go and investigate or raise an alarm. Or both in either order. Taking a good long moment to think it over (and a quick glance at the still shaking Miss Martin), Bilbo concluded there was only one thing for it.

"Look!" He pointed in the direction of the light. "There's a fire up on that hill!"

This roused everyone else, including Miss Martin who tried to get up but was forced to stay were she was by Bofur's comforting hands. The miner leaned forward, whispering something in her ear which made her nod and then lay back down again.

 _Good._ Bilbo thought, pleased. She was exhausted enough as it was and clearly in need of rest.

"Where, Master Baggins?" Balin asked hurriedly, coming up on his right side. "Show me."

"Just there," supplied Bilbo, pointing again. "Someone should go and see if it's safe."

That sparked an argument. Some said "yes" and others, "no". Bombur declared there was no harm in going due to the fact they had very little left for tomorrow's breakfast. Dori, however, continued to surprise all by announcing how everyone's clothes were soaked, Miss Martin _obviously_ ill, and shouldn't they at least give it a look over in case there was a some decent chance for food and warmth? Unable to say no to that, the Company then (by Thorin's decree) chose to draw lots to see who would go first.

Sad to say, poor Bilbo the Hobbit came to be the (un)lucky man.

"Now, Master Baggins," Thorin began seriously. He reached over to straighten Bilbo's jacket, then clapped his great hands over the Hobbit's shoulders. "Time to prove your worth as a Burglar. You are to go and investigate that light. Find out what it might be for and come back as quickly as you're able. If all is not well, return immediately. If you cannot, then hoot twice like a barn-owl and once like a screech-owl. We shall come and do what we can in that event."

Bilbo Baggins' gulped, uneasy and uncomfortable at being presented with such a task. Nonetheless, he stood up to his full height (all nearly four feet of it) and nodded solemnly. "Very well. I shall do my utmost best, Master Thorin."

And off he went silently into the woods. It was only when he was halfway up the hill did Bilbo realize he had forgotten to tell the Company that he could not, in fact, hoot like any owl at all.

* * *

Gandalf heaved a heavy sigh, not at all pleased with the new development with the weather.

It had been such a _pleasant_ day to begin with. Well, weather aside, the road forward and onward was going to be more rough and difficult than he had previously thought. They were going to have to cross into a dense forest and come out onto another open plain which stretched on for several more days yet. It was a rocky plain at that, with plenty of opportunities for ambush and other ill happenings if they did not heed to proper caution. It would be at least six more days to Rivendell, if they held true to this path and if they encountered no further delays by weather or anything else.

At least, that was the hope.

Suddenly, something moved between the trees to the Grey Pilgrim's left. He swung his white horse about and watched, eyes narrowed and staff at the ready.

"Show yourself!" Gandalf declared to the darkness, voice sharp and commanding.

There was the sound of rustling leaves and branches bending and then, out of the bleakness of the night, came forward two riders on steeds of grey and roan. Their garb was that of hunters, all greens and browns, but the fabric was of fine quality as were their mounts. Upon their shoulders, they wore cloaks of silver-grey fastened only by a brooch fashioned in the shape of a green leaf trimmed with the purest of silver. They wore spectacular swords at their belts and slender bows at their backs. They were tall and lean; their heads dark and eyes grey. Clearly, they were brothers and, equally as clearly, they were also friends.

And they were _Elves._

The Grey Pilgrim brightened in an instant and put aside his staff. "Elladan and Elrohir! Whatever are you doing out this way, I wonder?"

The two sons of Elrond Half-elven exchanged startled expressions with one another before turning to Gandalf with shared concern.

"Why, Mithrandir," began Elrohir slowly. "Did you not know?"

"These lands have grown far more dangerous," Elladan supplied anxiously. "It is not longer safe to travel alone."

Eyes traveling from one brother to the next, worry began to take hold of Gandalf's heart. The seriousness of their words were enough, for they were ever jovial and prone to mischief. For them to be brought to such a state of grimness, there must be a great deal of trouble afoot.

"Tell me all that you know and quickly!" He said earnestly. "For I have left friends behind and if there is danger, I must warn them of it!"

* * *

 _Well,_ Bilbo thought, _It could be far worse._

He could be dead, for a start.

Such as it was, he was _not_ dead and all four limbs and ten toes and fingers were still firmly attached. However . . .

He was hanging upside down (a very uncomfortable position he might add), by his ankle, and in the hands of a very hungry troll. There were three, actually. Trolls. And each of them was as ugly as the next and in very poor condition (apparently all they had to eat lately was a leathery old farmer and three days worth of mutton). After introductions had been properly made (William, Tom, and Bert it appeared their names were) and Bilbo thoughtlessly gave himself away halfway through it all (he was now a burrahobbit), they had now moved on to the charming conversation of deciding whether or not to cook him. A point Bilbo very much disagreed with and tried to dissuade them of.

Thus far, he wasn't making much of an impact. Oh, if only he remembered what a barn-owl sounded like!

"Oh, what a poor little blighter he is." That was William and he was half-drunk with ale. "Let 'im go."

"Not 'till he tells us if there are more o' 'em lying 'bout!" argued Bert, who clearly had no alcohol tonight much to Bilbo's misfortune. "I don' want me gullet slit when I'm asleep! So, out with it, burrahobbit! Where's the rest o' ya?!"

This only further distressed William who stamped his foot and cried, "He's mine! I's the one ta catch 'im and I say let 'im be!"

"Yer a fat fool!" Bert shot back angrily. "I've said it once an' I'll say it again!"

"And yer a great lout!"

This continued onward into a mighty row were Bert put a fist through William's eye and William responded by launching himself at Bert's middle, sending them both crashing to the forest floor. Bilbo had the decency to move out of the line of fire for fear of being trampled on. Of course, this would have been the best time for him to scurry back down the hill and make his report to Thorin that all was most certainly _not_ well. Though, there was a bit of comfort in the fact he had finally managed to do a bit of _burgling_ before he had been caught. However, currently, he was short of breath and his ankle was badly bruised thanks to Bert's great paw. That and his poor curly head was going round and round. So, instead, he flopped upon the ground (just outside the firelight where it was much safer) and lay there while Tom began to smack his two mates about the head with a tree branch. This, of course, only served to make the other two even angrier and now Tom was being roped into the middle of the brawl.

All was going well enough for Bilbo's poor head until he caught sight of something which made the blood in his veins cool spectacularly. Or, rather some _one_.

Poor Balin was wandering up the path with no idea of the sort of trouble he was about to find himself into.

This was going to end . . . for want of a better word . . . _badly_.

* * *

 _Trolls._

Trolls from the Ettenmoors. They hadn't been down this far South since the Second Age. What had ever caused them to move at this time? And to have the skill to do so in the first place?

"There is no time to waste!" Gandalf declared sternly. "I must double back and with great haste. I fear my companions may be walking into a trap!"

Elladan and Elrohir shared a similar expression of earnestness and concern between them. If innocent travelers were being accosted by such foul creatures, then they could not simply turn a blind eye to it. Despite their own misgivings, for neither particular enjoyed the idea of confronting trolls, they were bond by the ties all Good Folk shared.

"And you shall have our assistance, Mithrandir." Elladan offered a firm nod of determination.

"Whatever help we may be, you have it." Elrohir added, face set in resolution.

Gandalf looked from one brother to the other. "Are you certain? Your father may not-"

"Father may not agree," Elladan relented solemnly, dark brows furrowed in thought. "But only because of his love for us."

"What good does it do us to stand by and merely watch?" Elrohir asked quietly, his words heavy upon his tongue. "Are we not part of this world? Are we not allies?"

"Nay," Gandalf help up a hand for peace and chided gently, "Peace, sons of Elrond. I did not mean to insult your willingness to help those who may yet have need of it. Only that, should you choose to return to your house and Father, it be not in shame nor guilt."

This seemed to pacify the two Elf-brothers. Though they be thousands of years old at this time, compared to the elders of their kind, they were still very young.

"Come, ride with me," said Gandalf, turning his steed and making for the road with urgency. "Let us make sure my companions have not done anything foolish as of yet."

Elladan and Elrohir voiced their agreement and, with the flick of their slender wrists, spurred their mounts forward and into the path of danger.

* * *

This was certainly something Nori had not quite yet experienced in all his ten years of travel. Being tied up in a old, moth-eaten sack with three hungry trolls standing over him all in a tizzy over how to eat him, that is. No, this was an entirely different experience altogether. Actually, he could very much do without it. Curse trolls. And Hobbits as well while he was at it. Really, what sort of mess had the tiny creature gotten them into?

"I say we sit on 'em and squash 'em inta jelly!" Said one of them.

"Nah," replied another. "We roast 'em over the fire. Tha's the way ta eat Dwarf."

"Yer both wrong," the third piped up. "Jus' skin 'em and be done with it."

"It's ta late ta be roastin' 'em _now,"_ That was the first one again. "It'll take ta long."

"Well, who's fault is tha'?!" Argued the third. "If ya hadn'-"

"Yer the one who said-"

"I know wot I said!"

And so another round of this continued and all Nori could think about was trying to reach for the knife he had stashed up his sleeve. But, the angle was all wrong (even sitting up the way he was) and his hands were in a bad place and no matter how he twisted or turned, he just couldn't knock the darn thing _loose!_ If only he hadn't have walked into this Mahal forsaken place without his regal mace. He'd be giving these trolls the beating they deserved.

Just as he was debating the next best way to get out of his sack, when a sudden voice took to the air.

"What's all this trouble, now? Who has been knocking _my_ people about?"

From across the way, the Hobbit cried out from the shadow of a tree. "It's trolls! They're hiding behind the trees with _sacks!_ "

"Oh, is that so?"

Nori twisted about and nearly fell completely over Bombur's fat arse when Thorin Oakenshield, his King, burst through the trees. Thorin was not caught unawares however, and jumped to the fire before the trolls could set themselves upon him. Snatching up a burning branch, the King twisted about and put it into the eye of one of the buggers. Howling in rage and pain, it stumbled backwards and collapsed. Clearly not dead, but in no way fit to return to the battle anytime soon. At that point, the Hobbit launched himself out of the darkness and caught another by its leg. It was a worthless act. The troll spun about and sent the Burglar flying into a bush, where he landed upside down with a startled cry.

At that exact moment, the last remaining troll came forward and kicked the fire, sending hot coals and bits of burning twig into Thorin's face. Roaring in his own pain and rage, the King reached down and took hold of the same flaming branch he struck the first with and jabbed the other end into the third troll's mouth. It lost one of it's front teeth. Nori only knew this because the thing was sent flying in his direction where it bounced twice off his head, then his shoulder, and disappeared into the underbrush.

It was all looking rather hopeful until the moment the first one (who had recovered from being the first victim of attack) came up behind Thorin and drew a bag over his head right down to his feet.

"Righ'," It said, seemingly rather satisfied. Then it looked to it's two cohorts, face suddenly blanking. "Now wot?"

Nori couldn't help the groan passing through his teeth. Thirteen Dwarrows and one Hobbit, all bested by three of the _stupidest_ creatures imaginable. Maybe there was a chance he could convince Ori not to include this part in the history.

If they made it out alive.

* * *

Everything was blurry and the whole world sideways.

No. Wait. _She_ was sideways.

Yes, that sounded more reasonable . . . _Why_ was she sideways?

She tried to sit up . . . and fell promptly back down to earth, her head bouncing lightly off something soft.

 _A blanket._ She thought absently. It was a blanket. That . . . that _meant_ something, didn't it? What did it mean? Why was it so quiet?

Oh. Not quiet. There was . . . rain? Wind?

 _Cold!_

Oh! Why was it so cold? It shouldn't be _this_ cold. Should it?

Everything was blurry. Again.

No. It didn't stop being blurry.

Oh, why couldn't she focus?

Everything _hurt._ Why did her chest feel so tight? It hurt to _breathe._

What happened? Oh. There was . . . water. Lots of it. And hands . . . hands pulling her . . . pulling her under. It was dark. _So_ dark.

 _"Miss Martin?!"_

Who? Who's calling? What . . . what do they want?

 _"Open your eyes, you must!"_

 _Must I?_ Why?

 _DON'T let go!_

Let go? Oh. The princes. No. Can't . . . can't let go . . . they'll . . . they'll-

 _"Look at me! Tell me, what happened? Where is Thorin?!"_

Thorin? Thorin. Did she know . . . know a Thorin?

No. She . . . didn't know . . . anything.

 _I don't know . . . I don't know . . . I don't know . . . don't know . . ._

It was all so blurry.

And cold.

Why was it cold?

 _Breathe . . . can't . . . can't breathe._

The world stayed blurry then went utterly and completely black.

* * *

This was a frightening thing, indeed.

Gandalf knelt beside Miss Martin, who remained limp and unresponsive upon the cold ground. Her skin was deathly pale and her hair damp. She was bundled with nearly every blanket, bedroll, coat, and any other scrap of clothing the Company must have been able to spare. But, where had they gone? Why had they left her alone with not a soul to watch over her? This spelled for bad news and ill luck and every other foul thought under the sun.

"What ill fate has befallen her, Mithrandir?" Elrohir had come beside him, kneeling down so as to better examine her. He cautiously placed a gentle hand to her brow . . . and swiftly drew it away as if burned. "Blessed Valar! She is with fever!"

Behind his brother, Elladan stiffened and a cool countenance fell over the Elf as if he heard the words which brought doom upon them all. This was not unlike another scene the pair had once witnessed, only in that particular case it had been brought on by far different circumstances.

"Is this the work of Orcs?" There was a dangerous lit in Elladan's voice; a chilling promise of swift retribution.

"No," Gandalf shook his grey head and motioned to the Elf for peace. "At least, not on _this_ particular occasion it seems."

 _That_ remark earned him two looks of high suspicion both accompanied by raised brows of incredulousness. He coughed heavily and continued somewhat distractedly, "It appears she may have fallen in the river. That would account for the wetness and chills, I believe. And the fact my companions have swaddled her in whatever they could find."

Elrohir frowned but seemed to accept the evasiveness (for now). "We cannot simply leave her here, no matter what has become of your friends."

"Agreed," Gandalf began hurriedly. "There can be only one reason why she has been left alone and that is the trolls you spoke of before. Thorin Oakenshield would not be so careless as to allow her to wander into battle in this condition. Most likely, he left her at the last possible moment until there was nothing else for it. Which means-"

"It cannot have been long ago," Elladan finished swiftly. He, on the other hand, looked the least convinced by Gandalf's unspoken refusal to explain. Nonetheless, "I will assist you in whatever way I must, Mithrandir. However-"

"The lady must be taken to Imladris," Elrohir announced sternly. "This fever is dangerous, I felt it's heat. She needs healing, as swift as we can give it."

The Grey Pilgrim nodded and rose to his feet. "Then take her and fly as fast as your horse can carry you, Elrohir. Do not wait for us. We will not be far behind."

Elrohir nodded once with a curt incline of his head and reached for the brooch at his throat. Unclasping it, he leaned over and swept all the bedrolls and coats from her shaking form before bundling her once again in the folds of his own cloak. Once she was secured, he gathered her small frame into his arms.

"Take care, Brother. Mithrandir." And he was gone.

Elladan watched until they rode out of eyesight then turned about and stalked swiftly into the forest.

"Come," here, he drew his bow and strung it in one fluid motion. "Let us be done with this evil."

With that, the Elf melded into the trees as silent as a winter night.

Gandalf followed, staff at the ready, and a spell of trickery at his lips.

* * *

Bilbo Baggins was officially and thoroughly out of ideas.

He had come up with everything from elaborate cooking theories on how to properly cook Dwarf to out right lying about the state of their intestines. He even tried to spark another argument. However, it all failed. Finally, the trolls had had enough of him and stuffed the poor hobbit into the last bag and thrown him aside (which is to say, he ended up back in the bush). Now, he was all trussed up like his fellows and could only watch as the three monstrous creatures were slowing turning a spit . . . a spit with Dwalin, Bofur, Dori, and Nori all attached to it.

Oh, it was _hopeless._

However was he going to get them out of this mess?

"Ya wot?" Asked Tom.

Oh. They were going again. Truly, they argued so often, Bilbo had gotten to the point of blocking it out entirely.

"I didn' say anythin'," Came the response.

"Yes, ya did. I 'eard ya," William insisted.

"I didna. Yer imaginin' things," Bert said.

For the love of Eru! If they were going to eat them, couldn't they do it more _quietly?!_ He had all the beginnings of a righteous headache and could really use a few more quiet moments to come to terms with his immediate demise. Honestly, couldn't a Hobbit have a bit of peace so as to put his own affairs in order by the end?!

"Yer a booby."

"Wot ya say?!" Tom yelled, turning on William.

"I told ya, I haven' said a word!" William denied.

"Tha's rich, comin' from ya. Ya always have ta be insultin'."

"Wot ya on abou'?" William asked, plainly confused.

"I haven' said a word!" Said Tom.

"Now ya jus' plain lyin'."

"Nah, yer the one's tha' lyin'." Bert argued.

"Don' poin' tha' finger at me!" William yelled.

"I'll poin' it at anyone who wants a go!" Said Bert.

"Dawn's no' so far away. Let's jus' hurry up and eat 'em already!" Insisted Tom.

 **"Dawn take you all, and be stone to you!"**

A sudden, _terrible_ voice came over the camp. Before the trolls could turn about and snatch up their newest victim, the bright light of the morning sun came peeking over the tops of the trees. The dawn hit all three trolls at once and, for a long horrible moment of fascination, Bilbo watched as their skin began to solidify. They screamed in agony, struggling to move away but their feet were already stuck fast. They twisted and writhed and clawed at the open air for some sort of aid but none came. The whole change was over and done with before they even knew what fully happened. And then, there was silence. True, honest silence. Bilbo, still stuck upside down in his bush, heaved a great sigh of relief.

At last, he could close his eyes and have a much deserved rest.

"Bilbo Baggins, what _ever_ are you doing in that bush?!"

The poor Hobbit cracked one eye and nearly scowled at the Wizard who was currently picking his way around the fire to stand before him.

"Oh, I dunno," Bilbo drawled unhappily. "Just, hanging about I suppose."

"Indeed!" Gandalf declared, frowning. Then, the old man's face broke into a wide, cheeky grin. "My dear Hobbit, you never cease to amaze me."

Well now, Bilbo Baggins couldn't quite help but beam at that.


	5. In Which, Treasure is Lost

**A much shorter chapter than what I would normally post. I wish to apologize for the extremely late chapter. Work has been very brutal in the last two months and I haven't had much free time to myself. I did post this chapter before (I'm sure most of you got a message for it) and then found it had been removed.**

 **This was because I had posted the blasted thing under stress and then read sometime later only to be properly horrified by the writing. Clearly it was posted by a raving lunatic. Do not worry, for said lunatic has been properly taken care of and thoroughly dispatched.**

 **This is to say, I really need to learn my lesson and not post my writing when I'm clearly not well rested or in proper good health. That said, I am still not quite entirely happy with this chapter. I hope my lovely readers can either prove me wrong or properly instruct me on what is the matter with it so it can be fixed.**

 **My work is, as always, at your terrible mercy.**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 **In Which, Treasure is Lost**

* * *

Gandalf felt a vein twitch in his brow.

At the very least, it was no longer raining. Though, it was of little comfort now. It had taken a fair bit of time to untie everyone from their sacks and to sort out the precarious position of Dwalin, Bofur, Dori, and Nori. Though, on that score, Elladan had been of great assistance considering his rather tall stature. Much to the Dwarves displeasure, of course. Speaking of displeasure, seeing as poor Bilbo Baggins had _not_ climbed into his bush of his own accord, the Hobbit needed a helping hand in order to be removed from the offending shrubbery. Of which Gandalf was more than happy to oblige.

All in all, no one appeared too damaged or mistreated (though the matter of Dwarvish pride had certainly taken a bruising) and so this lead into the inevitable explanation of the last several hours. Bilbo had to run through his account of said events at least twice over before Gandalf was personally satisfied. However, this sparked a round of criticism from Thorin and Company of Bilbo's said handling of the situation and its obvious failings. Which now lead them to their current status of circling around the same argument and, quite predictably, Gandalf had more than enough of his fill of useless bickering.

"Truly!" He declared, thumping the butt of his staff against the earth with impatience and thereby startling the entire Company into silence. "Not a one of you would have gotten so much as a crumb out of those fellows and certainly not without a much grander squabble. You are quite fortunate our dear Burglar bought you enough time in order for me to distract them."

Bilbo Baggins, who had been nodding along in agreement, suddenly paused in surprise. "That was you? How in Arda did you manage _that?_ "

Gandalf sniffed, straightened his hat, and answered with some small manner of pride, "I am quite talented in the art of imitation if I choose. It was of little consequence to mock one of their voices and use their tendency to argue against them. But, that is not important."

"I agree," Thorin announced gruffly, making his way to the front of the Company. He proudly rose to his full height and met Gandalf's gaze with stony resolve. "Would you kindly tell us of your newfound companion, Wizard? We have not been formerly introduced."

Here the Dwarf prince threw out a hand towards Elladan who was currently removing the rope from Dori's hands.

Gandalf opened his mouth to retort but was promptly interrupted.

"Yer an Elf!" Bofur cried abruptly, pointing at the tall figure with animated enthusiasm. A hushed silence fell upon the group then, anxious and uncertain.

Elladan himself merely stared at the miner for a moment, then offered him a wide smile. "Quite right, Master Dwarf. I am, indeed, an Elf."

This sent the Company into a ruckus filled with groans and grumblings over being saved and protected by one of the immortals. Elladan, however, only smiled wider at the display; clearly amused by them all. Gandalf, on the other hand, eyed Thorin with weariness and saw within his stormy eyes both impatience and suspicion. That was to say nothing of his stance, which bore a rigid countenance and spoke counter to his calm tone of voice. The Dwarf prince was very much displeased yet, refused to allow Elladan to know of it. Though, no doubt, the Elf had enough wherewithal to perceive it nonetheless.

He shook his gray head, took a breath for much needed patience, and extended a hand to his friend in introduction. "May I present Elladan, son of Lord Elrond Half-elven, of Imladris. I met him on the road not long ago and he offered his assistance concerning your safety. He is a friend and no enemy to you."

The Dwarves eyed the Elf with incredulousness for a moment. Then promptly turned about and began whispering in Khuzdul.

Gandalf offered Elladan an apologetic expression but the Elf merely shook his head, grin never once faltering. At least, the humor was not entirely lost. Finally, after what seemed to be a long discussion, the Company broke apart and Thorin approached the Elf with a somber air.

"You have mine and my people's thanks, Master Elf." The prince who would be king bowed low at the waist and continued gravely, "I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, of the House of Durin. I have heard a great deal of your father and his house."

"Likewise," Elladan replied kindly, bowing in return. "My kin and I are honored to assist those of Good Folk who have fallen upon hard times."

"There, now." Thoroughly relieved the Dwarves would not launch themselves into _another_ one of their famous bouts of distrust, Gandalf smiled and threw out his hands for peace. "We are all friends here. So, begging everyone's pardon, let us return to the matter at hand."

"Indeed. The presence of trolls this far South bodes ill for all Free People," Elladan remarked with great seriousness. "These in particular have caused quite an uproar in the area."

"They ate a farmer!" Bilbo piped up in obvious distress, his hands ringing the life out of themselves. Quite without his knowledge, no doubt.

"Yes, yes." Gandalf waved dismissively at the dear Hobbit's innocence. "And a great deal more, I'm certain. I'm afraid that is the nature of trolls, Bilbo Baggins. They are not the friendly sort to invite for afternoon tea."

The Hobbit frowned at this and turned away only to grumble irritably under his breath, "Obviously."

"Regardless of how many innocents they have eaten," Intervened Thorin with somewhat of a miffed expression at being left out of the conversation. "We ourselves have just escaped with our lives. Now, since we are all present and accounted for-"

"By Hammer and Stone!"

Gandalf startled at the outburst. As did everyone else, save for Elladan who merely raised a dark brow at the oath. Bofur, hat sliding dangerously to one side, stood stock still and pale in the middle of the gaggle of Dwarves with an expression of insurmountable horror growing upon his dirt covered face.

"The lass." The miner's voice was barely higher than a whisper. "We've left 'er behind."

A terrible calm fell upon the Dwarves at that moment and a fear unlike anything Gandalf had seen from the Company previously, slowly settled upon their faces. Instantly reminded of the fact Miss Martin was now leagues away on a course for help, he opened his mouth to soothe their worry when everything erupted into a whirling chaos.

* * *

They ran.

Of course they did.

There was nothing else for it, really.

Bofur blindly reached out and batted away a thick branch whilst simultaneously leaping over a stray root. How could they have forgotten so easily? Though, he supposed nearly being eaten by trolls had been something to be more concerned over at the time. That was beside the point. Someone should have stayed at her side and kept a close watch. Any one of them would have been enough. Even Ori, for as timid and quiet of a lad as he was, would have been more than capable.

By Mahal's Beard! After everything they had done to humiliate and lay low what remained of her pride, the lass had enough courage to risk her life for the young princes. Only to be struck down with fever and a terrible chill as a price. With as ill as she was, shaking and cold, she had tried to hide how vulnerable and frightened and miserable she had been laying underneath their coats. Even still she masked it all behind a smile and a weak promise not to die. Every bit of her strength used as a front to keep her from seeming weak before them.

And they _left_ her.

"Bofur!"

"Thorin and Company! Cease your scrambling!"

"Wait, lad!"

"Would ye stop runnin' off at the drop o' yer hat!"

 _Wait?_ He grit his teeth, molars giving slightly under the pressure. Oh, they had done enough of that. Waiting for each other to arrive to help against the trolls. Waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for the Wizard's aid. Waiting to be untied. Bofur had more than enough of his fill of _waiting._ What he wanted now, at this moment, was to crush something under his mattock. Preferably an enemy with ill intentions. He wanted to rave against himself for leaving her defenseless. Yet, more than anything, he wanted to make sure nothing had happened to the poor lass who could not even raise her head the last he saw of her.

That was to say nothing of the fact she was still sporting injuries from her fight with the Orc. How could they have been so foolish!

At long last, the trees parted and the hill sloped down to even ground. Bofur burst into the remains of their previous camp, weapon raised, and a cry of righteous fury upon his lips, and . . . the nest of bedrolls, blankets, cloaks, coats, and one prized furred vest . . . was empty.

Off to the side, untouched on the roots of a birch, was her strange but dark coat and something gold lying in its folds caught the light of the sun peaking through it's branches. The precious trinket she had once worn around her neck now rested peacefully atop the fabric. Her leather pack remained untouched beside the root, his spare comb sticking out of one pocket. Her black beast of a pony was lashed beside the others, grazing quietly on blades of grass.

Yet, there was no sign of _her._

No blood.

No struggle.

Nothing.

Bofur stood helpless as the last of the warm Spring breeze blew threw the trees, as if whispering of their terrible failure. He fell to his knees, shaking in his own terror, and felt the weight of the world come crashing down upon his ears.

Something had _taken_ her.

* * *

Apparently, something riding a horse of all things.

Nori frowned over the tracks, growing frustrated by the moment for the ground was quite sodden from all the rain. However, the prints were deep and the mud remained thick and clay-like nearest the treeline. It was their sole fortune. Thicker soil meant the tracks held their shape. Yet, the rain worked against them. The prints had been utterly destroyed when the horse had lifted out it's hooves. Added to the fact they were spaced at least a full outstretched length apart. Meaning the animal had taken off at a great deal of speed and had kept that pace for quite a ways.

Judging by how and where the tracks where positioned . . . they rounded the forest and headed East.

Yet, it made no sense.

 _Why?_

She was in no condition to ride on her own. By Hammer and Stone, she could barely lift her head the last he saw her. Let alone climb into the saddle of a fully grown horse. Which meant, if she was unable to do this herself, then that could only mean . . .

 _Somethin's made off with her._

That was not a comforting thought. While not overly fond of the woman, Nori had no real cause to hate her. Even with Dori entering into a legal dispute on his behalf (he rolled his eyes at that), he hadn't felt the action necessary. No harm had come to him or the royal family so therefore the whole event had been a waste of time and only served to put them even further behind schedule. And time was of great importance if they wanted to succeed on this Quest. Most of which was now spent on this mysterious lady who had a bad habit of falling out of ceilings and finding trouble.

Or causing it.

Whichever.

This, however? Nori gritted his teeth. It was not as if she _asked_ to be taken. No, he could very well see how she would not be keen on going anywhere with anyone she did not know or trust (she barely tolerated the Company as it was). So, taken, most likely, against her will and spirited off somewhere. Wonderful. He could track them, yes. But for how long? And to where? Was there enough time to even reach her before -?

He spat a foul curse in Khuzdul.

 _No._

Most certainly he was not going to even think of _that._

"Curse, them!" Nori growled, straightening up. "They're hours old, Thorin. Whoever they were, they were here while we were bein' tied up."

His King, who had been standing beside him the entire time, crossed his arms to the point of bulging and a murderous expression darkened upon his face. If Nori had not known the anger was not directed at him, he would have felt a flicker of intimidation.

"You are certain of this?" Asked Thorin, a vicious sneer pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Very." Nori answered grimly, his gaze wondering back over the tracks' pattern. "They're at least almost a full day 'head o' us now."

There was silence for a moment. Then Dwalin roared and buried Ukhlat into the same tree Bofur was currently sitting under, still dazed and confused, missing the miner by the span of his arm. It was all the same, really. Bofur had not even flinched, so lost in his own thoughts as he was.

 _"Now, what?!"_ Dwalin spat, pacing madly. "What, Thorin?! Are we jus' goin' ta sit here while she's-"

The warrior trailed off, unable to finish.

No one else spoke.

Nori glanced about warily. The rest of the Company was either sitting upon the roots of trees or leaning against their trucks, looking everywhere save the unclaimed pack and pony. It was the Hobbit alone, oddly enough, who had enough courage to approach the beast and stroke its mane. It nickered softly, almost in a sad way, and nudged its nose against the his shoulder. The Hobbit sniffed threateningly and scrubbed a hand over his eyes to hide the tears that were no doubt trying to make their way down his cheeks. In an added effort to hide them, Nori watched as he dug his hand into the woman's pack and withdrew an apple. The pony seemed to brighten at the gift and devoured it greedily. The Hobbit continued to stroke it, though it grew restless and began to toss it's head.

It was with startled understanding that he realized the pony was _looking_ for her.

Nori cursed vividly in his native tongue once more and wished a thousand deaths upon the one who took the woman in the first place. If only because the entire Company had, in some way or another, started to care about the young woman. Caring was dangerous. Sense would give way to emotion. When emotion ruled, then mistakes were made. Avoidable ones. And once one began to make easy, small missteps then it opened the way for larger ones. Ones you could not walk away from.

He knew all too well about those.

Without thinking, Nori's hand went to his hip and rubbed against the scar buried underneath the cloth of his trousers.

* * *

Dori eyed his brother carefully from the treeline.

There it was again.

The expression Nori took on when he thought far too long about something. _THE_ Something. Something his brother refused to speak of but which clearly kept him up late into the night. He thought Dori did not notice. Yet, of course he knew. It concerned his brother and anything concerning family was to be taken with the utmost of seriousness. Dori may not know his brother's mind completely, yet he knew enough of his character to the point it was plain as day to see the difference.

And Nori _was_ different make no mistake.

Since he saw him for the first time in a decade, sitting at a table in a darken tavern with Thorin and Dwalin and Balin, Dori knew something had changed. The light in Nori's eyes had shifted, the cadence of his voice had become slow and careful, and he never sat with his back to a possible exit. _Ever._

Though not an overly friendly Dwarrow to start with, Nori had never been one for seclusion either. He enjoyed the company of his closest friends and could cause a ruckus from time to time yet, it had never been out of malice or ill will. He spoke his mind when he saw fit and never once minced words for the sake of preserving feelings but now, lashing out in anger was beginning to become a staple. These days, it seemed he enjoyed causing pain whenever he felt the need. Mostly, this was directed at Dori himself and a part of him was glad for it. He could carry the weight of his brother's wrath.

Ori, Mahal help him, could not. His youngest brother was extremely gentle and kind. He loved his books and liked his knitting rather than carry an axe or a sword. Ori would take Nori's words, no matter how cruel, to heart and they would rot there.

As luck would have it, Nori, ever on the defensive, only let down his guard for their youngest brother. Never once did Nori take out his temper on Ori. Dori had not seen them argue since they came together for the sake of the Quest. Instead the two of them were growing closer and while that did warm Dori's heart, a great part of him missed the way Nori and he would talk or enjoy one another's company. There was none of that now. Not after he -

Well. After.

There was Before, there was After, and then there was The Something. How had it all gone so wrong?

The sudden rustling of leaves caught Dori's ear and interrupted his thoughts. He turned around only to find the Wizard and Elf standing before him, the former obviously worn out by the abrupt journey downhill. "Master Gandalf?"

"Master Dori," The Grey Pilgrim announced breathlessly and the Elf moved to help the older man remain upright. "You must listen to me. Miss Martin-"

"The Miss?" Dori questioned, startled.

He had not liked her. Not in the least. She was a burden. A troublemaker. She had risked the safety of everyone, the lives of the only family he had remaining, and _then_ (to further complicate matters because there was nothing _else_ for her to do otherwise) the young lady went and nearly drowned herself in order to pull their very young princes from a rampaging river.

There had been no need, of course; they could have done so without much trouble. Yet, she had acted before any one of them even had the chance. Stubborn woman. Ridiculous woman. Though, not the selfish, self-centered woman he had once claimed her to be. Someone of that nature would not have done what she did last night. For all intent and purposes they were strangers, her and the Company. Nonetheless, she saved two of their own without a shred of hesitation. The line of Durin was now well in hand due to her bravery.

How could he hate her for _that?_

"What of her?" Dori demanded, drawing up to his full height. "Tell me, please."

Again, the Wizard took a much needed breath before speaking sharply, "She has be given into the keeping of the Elves, Master Dwarf. Now, if only I could get the rest of this blasted Company to listen to me-"

"The Elves?!" He exclaimed, eyes widening. "Oh! Master Gandalf, then she will be well, yes?!"

After all, it would not do if the one who saved the lives of their beloved princes fell to a simple fever.

"Save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves," The Wizard sighed. _"Yes,_ Master Dori. Miss Martin is under the care of Lord Elrond, a great healer. Now _please,_ I must speak with Thorin before he decides to do something foolish."


	6. In Which, the Author has an Explanation

**First and foremost, I'm sorry this isn't a chapter. This is an explanation which I will leave up for a time so everyone has had a chance to read it and understand. I owe you all an apology and this is it,**

 **Please, read on dear readers.**

* * *

As you, my dear readers, are undoubtedly aware I have been gone for a quite a long while. Nearly over two years in fact. This is a difficult conversation to have with you but, we must have it regardless.

For sometime in my late teens and early twenties, I lived with my grandmother. My grandfather had died two years prior and she was not taking his loss well. No one in my family did. I didn't know what I wanted to do after high school and I wasn't ready for college yet, so I decided to live with my grandmother and work a small job for a time. My grandmother enjoyed not being alone in the house and I saved money for school.

I had spent a good majority of my free time growing up at my grandparents house and we were very close. However, in the last year I lived with her, my grandmother's health took a very sharp turn for the worse. She had become extremely forgetful and unable to spend any amount of time on her own, let alone be left to herself for an eight hour shift while I was at work. The final piece of this happened when I came home from work and the stove was on fire.

Needless to say, even with me there, it wasn't enough.

So, my aunt (my mother's oldest sister), took charge and moved my grandmother in with her and her husband. However, I wasn't allowed to stay in the house and had to move back to my parents' place where I found a small college to attend. Things went well for a time but my grandmother began to become worse and worse, until she no longer was herself anymore. Her health had declined to the point where my aunt had no choice but to put her in a home.

Less than 24 hours later, she had a fit of some kind. A minor stroke, an attack, we really don't know. But, that was that and my grandmother began the process of passing away. It took a little over three days and she was out of it for a great majority thank goodness. However, on the last day, she came out of it for a brief moment. Everyone was there that could be. All her children, their husbands, the grandkids, ect.

This . . . this is very difficult for me to say everyone. I still haven't really processed it and its been two years. Near the end, my grandmother had a moment where she was her old self and I was the only one she immediately recognized. Her eyes locked with mine and she smiled, said my name, and then she went under.

She never came out of it again.

Yet, her death was fast and she didn't suffer. That is a great blessing even of itself and not like my grandfather's which was a two year long battle with cancer and a broken shoulder which couldn't be fixed due to him dying. But, while I had steadily healed from my grandfather's passing, it is my grandmother's which is very difficult for me. I believe it always will be.

Growing up, I had always been writing. I had always had my head in a book and a pen and notepad next to my bed. My grandmother understood me; she was an English teacher, published two books, and won many awards for her poetry. She had hundreds of short stories and poems. When I would visit, I brought my work with me and we would go over it together. She encouraged me, pushed me, and was a brutal tyrant at times when it came to the subject. But, I loved every moment of it (mostly). I became better at my work because I had the best teacher in the entire world who believed in me, understood what I liked to write, _how_ I liked to write, and was able to foster my talents in a way none of my actual school teachers ever could.

She was my mentor, you see.

Not only that, but while my dad is one of the most well-read man I have ever known and one of the reasons why I love fantasy so much, it was my grandmother who got me into _The Lord of the Rings_. My grandmother was born in the early 20's and she remembered The Great Depression. _The Hobbit_ was published in time for her to read as a child and probably was one of her few options for escapism. She was obsessed with Tolkien. In her library, she had the second editions, autobiographies of Tolkien's life, books of Tolkien's own artwork, printed editions with screenshots from the films, Middle-earth A to Z encyclopedias, and so much more.

Tolkien was her passion and because of her influence, it became mine.

This is a rather long winded way of saying that my grandmother, writing in general, and my love for Tolkien are all wrapped up together. A tangled mess that's rather impossible to separate. So much so that I have this horrifying urge to "kill" everything I have ever created. I have come to despise every word I put to paper or screen. I vehemently feel this sense of loss and anger when writing.

I find the act physically painful. Even writing this to all of you, I feel like my heart is being ripped out of me by tenfold. My grandmother's fingerprints are all over every piece I ever made because she was there, pushing me to be better, to work harder, to go over it again and again and again.

She even helped me revise the first couple of chapters of this series. It had been my hope that she would read it when it was finished.

This story is so interwoven with my grandmother's memory . . . and I find it very hard to come back to it. Somehow, it feels like a betrayal. That I'm abandoning her by continuing a story that she had encouraged because of my passion and love for my favorite fantasy story of all time. _Our_ favorite.

It's a battle with grief, I know. I have a feeling writing will never be the same for me again. It's like the loss of a Muse. The reason for everything is gone. It's not that I wrote solely because of her, of course I did it for me too. Yet, I always had her to come to when something wasn't clicking or when the words weren't coming or the paragraphs too long-winded. She could always nudge me in the right direction and I could go on and find my way.

I no longer have this.

My support network is gone and it feels . . . so very empty.

My parents have always supported me. They love that I write and read and have all this love for stories. However, they can't help me in the way my grandmother could because they aren't writers. My father, as wonderful as a man as he is, can only help me on a technical level and we all know that writing is more than just technicality.

There is something spiritual about writing. Something grander than just putting words to page in a coherent manner which is made up of more than just "good grammar" and "correct punctuation". There has to be a soul behind those words or else they are only that . . . words. Scribbles on a page which can mean nothing at all at the end of the day.

I feel horrible for letting this story collect dust. I had no idea really, how much this story had come to mean so much to so many people. This is humbling. So very humbling. I feel I owe all of you so much more than what I have given you. You deserve more. Every single reader and reviewer has been a blessing and a joy. All of you have believed in me and supported me and I feel as if I have let every single one of you down in the most horrible way.

Yet, grief is this experience which has no real guidelines. There is no set period. No limit on what feelings you may have in a certain moment or how long they last. They may be constant or come in waves. It simply is. For however long this lasts, this story is here.

I _will_ come back to it. I _do_ miss it. I miss writing. I miss the characters and Cate. I miss my drive and passion. I miss . . . being me. For writing is who I am and who I always will be. I write, therefore, I am. Me without it feels like I'm not me at all. My grief has become a shackle on not only my writing but myself as well.

Somehow, when I locked my writing away, I locked a core part of myself in there as well and I have misplaced the key.

My grandmother would be sad to see me this way. She always told me, "Never stop writing". I think she would feel even sadder to know her death has put me off a core part of what makes me who I am. I feel that way too to be honest.

Yet, I can't force it. I have tried and failed and _hated_ writing even more than before by doing so. I can't force myself through this. For me, this isn't about being lazy or too busy with life or anything that simple. I lost the one person in my entire life who understood my very soul. My dad can't help me in the way I need it because he doesn't _feel_ the words.

A writer, I feel is like the Horse Whisperer. There are people who can speak to certain things. To animals, to carpentry, to cars, to computers, to science, ect. I just so happen to speak in the art of crafting stories. Words are my blocks. I have the ability to see a story in my head and then use those blocks to build it. It's like architecture in that way.

I'm writing this now because I owe every single one of you an explanation for two years of silence. Two years of nothing. To years or failure and disappointment. I'm so sorry. I'm more sorry and angry with myself than you know because here I have so many wonderful people who believe in me and somehow its still not enough for me to pick up my work again.

I will find away back to this story. It may take more time, sadly. It may take me more than what I can handle. It will most likely take opening that ugly scar on my heart and forcing myself through the pain.

They do say the best art is created through suffering. Well, my dear readers, I feel like I have be suffering. I won't lie and say that I'm well when in actuality, I hurt so deeply when I write. I'm not lying to you when I say that these 1,955 words as of this point are the most I have written in two years time in one setting.

Somehow, I hope to find my way out of the dark tunnel I'm in.

If anyone has the Light of Eärendil, I would appreciate it very much if I could borrow it for a time.

Yours truly,

Lady of Myth and Legends


End file.
